#I AM LOSING IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[cameronsbabydoll]

you’re followin’ him around the house like a little duckling in heart-print pajama shorts, pink fuzzy socks, and a tank top that says ‘daddy’s girl’ in glitter letters.

he’s tryin’ to clean his guns on the coffee table. hasn’t looked up once.

“simonnn…” you whine, ploppin’ down beside him.

“what now.” flat. not a question. a warning.

“i just… i missed you…” you blink up at him, resting your chin on your hand. “also… if a plane crashes on the border of two countries… where do they bury the survivors?”

he finally looks up.

“what the fuck did you just say?”

you smile real pretty. “y’know! like… which country do they bury ‘em in?”

he just stares. dead silent.

“…jesus fuckin’ christ.”

you blink. “did i say something dumb?”

“they’re survivors, love. they don’t fuckin’ bury ‘em.”

you giggle. “ohhh…”

he sighs so hard it rattles the windows. tosses his rag onto the table.

“m’gonna lose my fuckin’ mind, swear to god.”

“simon…” you whimper, crawling into his lap. “don’t be mad…”

he leans back, big hands gripping your hips. jaw tight. eyes dark.

“what am i gonna do with you, huh? my soft little wife. can’t even figure out where a fuckin’ plane goes when it crashes.”
“was just askin’…”
“dumb girl.” he squeezes your hips hard. “head full of sparkles n’ nothin’ else.”

you whimper again, softly, nuzzling into his neck. “but i’m your wifey…”

“fuckin’ right you are.” he grabs your ass and pulls you down onto his cock, already hard beneath his sweats. “mine. my stupid little wifey who follows me ‘round like a lost fuckin’ puppy.”

“’m not stupid…”
“you are.” he kisses the corner of your mouth. “but that’s alright. i like you like this. soft. dumb. needy.”

he pulls your tank top down, lets your tits spill out. sucks a bruise into your skin.

“c’mon, then,” he mutters. “ride me. use that dumb brain for somethin’ useful.”

you bounce in his lap, messy and breathy, moanin’ into his mouth. he holds you like a toy—hands bruising, voice gruff.

“look at you,” he groans. “fuckin’ brainless, ain’t ya? all sloppy on my cock.”

“simon—simon, m’your wifey—”
“you’re my fuckin’ problem is what you are.”

you cum all over him with a high, shivery cry, babbling nonsense. he doesn’t stop. not even after.

“you ask me one more stupid question,” he pants, “and i’ll bend you over the fuckin’ oven.”

[rosemaryhoney27]

Cat Conspiracy

The Cat Conspiracy

Damian Wayne had tracked assassins across continents, dismantled crime syndicates before breakfast, and fought rogue AI while still managing to ace his Latin homework.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared him for Danny Fenton.

Specifically, Danny Fenton and his suspicious pattern of visiting pet stores all over Gotham, emerging each time with an armful of cats.

Damian narrowed his eyes from the rooftop across the street as Danny exited The Purring Palace with five cats in various shades of tabby draped across his arms, a smug little smile on his face.

Damian’s voice was a low growl in the comms. “Grayson. I’ve got eyes on Fenton again. He’s acquired more felines. That’s the third pet store this week. Something is afoot.”

Across the city, Dick let out an exaggerated groan. “Maybe he just likes cats?”

“No one likes cats that much. Not without a nefarious purpose,” Damian replied, dead serious.

“Damian, buddy, you live with eight trained attack bats and a demon dog. Let the kid have some cats.”

“I will not rest until I uncover his scheme.”

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton was indeed up to something.

He wasn't robbing banks or raising a ghost army or even stealing Gotham's supply of tuna fish. His plan was, in fact, adorably petty.

“Here you go, Mr. Meowser,” he whispered as he tucked the newest stray into a box carefully prepared with toys, a mini litter pan, and an engraved name tag. “You’re going to love your new home. It has three fireplaces, heated floors, and a man who pretends to hate you but secretly buys you imported kibble.”

He grinned as the box closed.

Operation: Furry Revenge was going purrfectly.

After all, if Vlad Masters—billionaire fruit loop, obsessed with power, and frequent thorn in Danny’s ghostly side—was too busy dealing with the ever-growing clowder of feline freeloaders mysteriously showing up at his mansion, then he’d have zero time for evil schemes.

Better yet, Vlad hadn’t sent a ghost assassin after him in weeks. The last thing he’d screamed over the phone was, “Daniel, I am not a cat café!”—right before the line went dead and the sound of a kitten meowing played faintly in the background.

Success.

Vlad was unraveling.

He now owned no less than thirty-two cats, each with names like “Princess Fuzzums,” “Waffle,” and “Mr. Stabby.”

They appeared out of nowhere.

Well, not nowhere. Always in tidy, clearly handmade boxes, addressed to him, complete with vet records and gourmet food recommendations.

He’d tried to be mad. He’d tried to find the source. But the cats... they purred.

One had curled up on his chest and started kneading at his robe while purring like a chainsaw, and now she had a bed on his desk and he dictated business emails around her nap schedule.

He was losing the war, and the worst part? He was starting to like it.

Damian had enough.

He dropped down from a rooftop like an avenging shadow as Danny exited yet another pet store with a fluffy ginger kitten perched on his head like a crown.

“I knew it.”

Danny screamed and nearly dropped the kitten. “What the hell?! Do you practice dramatic entrances?”

“You’ve been acquiring cats for a dark purpose,” Damian said, voice cold and accusatory. “I demand to know what you’re planning.”

Danny blinked at him. Then grinned.

“Would you believe me if I said it was a long-term plan to neutralize a billionaire supervillain through the power of feline responsibility?”

Damian stared.

Danny kept going. “I call it Operation: Claw and Order. My target now owns thirty-two cats. That’s roughly thirty-one more than he emotionally admits to loving.”

“…You’re weaponizing cats.”

“Yes,” Danny said, very proud.

Damian folded his arms. “…Interesting. I approve.”

Danny blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I would’ve used snakes, but your method is arguably more insidious. If you require assistance in continuing this campaign, I can connect you with Selina Kyle. She has... resources.”

Danny cackled. “Oh my god, is this what friendship feels like?”

“No,” Damian said immediately. “…But I’ll help deliver the next batch.”

And just like that, Gotham’s weirdest alliance was born: the half-ghost boy with a vengeance plan powered by kittens, and the Bat’s youngest, most terrifying son.

Vlad never knew what hit him.

But his cats were very well-fed.

[permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88]

this. this. yes, it's the state of fandom and fanfiction in general, now. there's no real way of telling whether or not it will change. but my gosh is it ever disheartening, and honestly terribly sad to see that this is the way it will continue to go, if things remain the same as they are, right now.

now, before anyone comes at me with them, I've heard the myriad of reasons why a person might choose not to comment or leave kudos. they're shy. they forget. they don't want to leave a "footprint" on this wild little place known as the internet. they fear retaliation and hostility from authors who misinterpret comments left in good faith, and any number of other reasons, as well. and I want to make it abundantly clear that this is by no means an attempt on my part to dismiss or invalidate those reasons. at the end of the day, if someone doesn't want to interact with a given work, they won't, and as much as that may sadden me, I fully respect it as their choice. a comment that comes organically, because someone feels moved to leave it is far better than one that is forced or pressured in any way, and that is a hill I will die on.

that said, though, we will continue to lose people who are willing to share their works with us, if this trend continues. it's just a fact. while I make no attempt to speak for all of us, there are so, so many people I know that write for themselves, sure, but they share their work in the hopes that at least one (1) other person out there will be moved by what they've created. they share in the hopes that said other person will maybe want to interact with them because of it. whether the interaction leads to an unexpected friendship and mutual discussion of fic plots and characters and new releases of our favorite series, or not, the hope for it is there. the heartbreak is there, too, when we, as creators, post something we're particularly proud of, and receive nothing but silence in response. it's there when we try to make sure we present a face that is receptive to feedback and interaction. when we encourage comments, and ask questions of our readers, and yet still...silence. sure, if we're passionate about what we're creating, and/or the themes/ideas we're trying to convey, we can push on. we should push on, because I, for one, am so beyond tired of a world that tries to stifle people, and drown their voices out because they don't "fit the mold" of normal that is determined by some nameless, faceless majority. but to continue doing so, and to continue to receive silence in response? to be called 'entitled' by some readers, because we dare to ask for something...anything...other than crickets, and the sensation that we're shouting into the void?

it's really no wonder that some may choose to move on to other things.

while I've never experienced what OP's friend has with Discord, I can only imagine that such a situation only makes what I've already mentioned above so much more discouraging. it must make those it has happened to wonder what on earth is the point? if everyone is too busy sharing their reactions in their isolated little groups without ever deigning to let the creator know their feelings, or just mass-consuming it and moving on to the next thing ten seconds later, as if the first thing that caught their attention never even existed, why are we even bothering to do this at all? again, I do not speak for everyone, but I daresay the majority of us are not trying to be the next big name author. we're not trying to 'make it big' at all. this is a hobby, that we do for free, in our (mostly) limited free time, and anymore, we largely receive absolutely nothing in return. we pour pieces of ourselves out there into the world, completely free of charge. we make ourselves vulnerable in ways that are often ugly. real. to many, silence in the face of that vulnerability is exactly the same as the dismissiveness and invalidation we've already received when we're that 'real' anywhere else in our lives. it drives home the thought that our voices do not matter, and thus we should not bother speaking. and no, society and our readers at large are not responsible for our vulnerability and our emotions and our traumas that we sometimes place upon our characters as a means of processing them. but even if we aren't opening ourselves up to our readers, if it's genuinely all in "good fun", we can't legally monetize it, interaction is our form of 'earnings' from this, and by and large that sort of thing is rare, and has been for quite a while. and sure. people can read and abandon fics at will, with or without leaving some trace of their presence along the way. that is well within their right. but I have also seen these same individuals go on to harrass the creators of works that have been abandoned or deleted for doing so, despite never once trying to show any form of appreciation at all. and then they have the nerve to call us entitled for wanting that appreciation in the first place.

the fact that the "social media-ification" of fanfiction (it is not Instagram, no matter how so many may treat it as such) and the quite honestly despicable behavior from a loud minority of touchy authors who have now effectively ruined commenting for so many of the rest of us has made fanfiction what it is today is just...heartbreaking. it really, really is. and while I personally plan to stick around and do my best to fight the demons in my mind that tell me no interaction means that no one cares about my stories so I should just stop writing them, not everyone will. we're all incredibly foolish if we believe otherwise, and honestly, as awful as I feel saying it "out loud"?

if fandom culture doesn't see a change soon, and more and more talented authors continue dropping like flies?

we'll deserve it.

tl;dr? creators are not robots, people. we aren't content-mills, put on this earth specifically to serve the bidding of consumers, on their timeline, and not our own. but what do I know, right?

I'm just a so-called "entitled" author who thinks interaction with our work, no matter how small, shouldn't be a thing that we have to try to pull from behind stubbornly gritted teeth.

A writer friend told me something that broke my heart a little bit today; they're going to quit publishing their fanfic.

My instant thought was that they had been trolled or attacked or that something terrible had happened in their life because this person is so passionate about their writing. It wasn't any of that. Engagement with their works has been going down, as it has for many of us. Comments are like gold dust a lot of the time, and just looking through the historical comment counts on old fics on ao3 demonstrates this trend very clearly. It was not simply the comments dropping off which caused them to decide to stop posting, however.

My friend came across a discord server for their fandom (I should point out here that their fandom interest and mine diverged a couple of years ago, we stay in touch but don't currently read each other's posts because I'm not into their fandom and they would rather gouge their eyes out with a wooden spoon than read anything Star Wars) and specifically to share fic in that fandom. They joined, because we all love a good fic rec, only to discover that their latest multichapter fic, which has almost no comments and very few kudos, is being hotly discussed in this server as one of the best stories ever. Not one of these people has bothered to say this to them on the fic. When they asked, none of participants could see the point in telling the author of the fic they apparently loved so much that they love it.

This discovery has absolutely destroyed my friend's love of sharing fic. They share because they love seeing other people's enjoyment, and fic writers do that through comments and kudos/reblogs/likes because we don't get paid. There is no literary critic writing a blog post/article about how amazing the story is for us to copy and keep/frame. There is no money from royalties. All we have are the words of the people reading our works.

Those people on that server could have taken five minutes of the time they spent gushing about how amazing my friend's story was to other people and used it to tell the one person guaranteed to want to hear that praise how much they loved it. They could have taken a moment to express their opinion to the person who spent hours upon hours plotting, writing, editing, and posting those chapters. Instead, they deprived my friend of thing that keeps them sharing their writing, and in the process have killed their love of it. My friend now feels used and unmotivated.

I won't be sharing a link to their fic, they said I could share their experience but not their identity. I know they plan to post one final chapter. I know they intend to express their hurt at being excluded from the praise for the thing they created, and I know they intend to announce that as a consequence they will not be posting for a long while, if at all.

So please, I beg you, don't hide your love of a story from the writer. It's just about the only thing we have.

[solxamber]

Winner Takes It All

The one in which they're too late.

Characters: Ace - Deuce, Leona - Vil, Jamil - Kalim

Angst no comfort!

divider credits to @chocolatebearstrawberry i love you <3

Ace - Deuce

"So, uh..." Deuce's face is redder than Riddle's hair as he fidgets with the hem of his uniform jacket. "We wanted to tell you something."

Ace glances up from his phone, sprawled across his bed in their shared dorm room. "Yeah? Did you finally figure out that two plus two equals four, Juice?"

You elbow him lightly, but you're smiling—that soft, fond smile that makes something warm unfurl in Ace's chest every single time. The same smile he's been hoarding like treasure for months, telling himself he has all the time in the world to make it his.

"Be nice," you chide, and God, he loves when you do that. Loves the way you defend Deuce but still laugh at his jokes. Loves how you've somehow managed to make your chaotic trio work when by all rights, it should have fallen apart ages ago.

"We're dating now," Deuce blurts out, and the words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Ace's phone slips from his fingers.

For a moment, the room is so quiet he can hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. Can hear the way his breath catches in his throat like he's been sucker-punched. Can hear the world reshuffling itself around him, rearranging into a configuration where you belong to someone else.

Where you belong to Deuce.

"Oh," he says, and his voice sounds strange and distant even to his own ears. "Oh, cool."

You're watching him carefully, your expression uncertain. "Ace? Are you okay?"

And that—that breaks something in him. Because of course you'd be worried about him. Of course you'd care about his reaction even in your moment of happiness. You've always been like that, always putting everyone else first, always making sure no one gets left behind.

He should have known you'd fall for someone who does the same thing.

The laugh that bubbles up from his chest tastes like blood and sounds like broken glass. "Okay? I'm great! This is hilarious." He sits up, forcing that familiar cocky grin onto his face even though it feels like wearing a mask made of knives. "Deuce actually managed to get a partner before me? Man, I really am losing my touch."

Deuce flushes darker. "It's not a competition, Ace."

"Isn't it though?" The words slip out sharper than he intended, and he sees you flinch. Sees the hurt flash across your face, and he wants to take it back, wants to swallow the poison before it can spread. But it's too late. It's always too late with him.

"I mean," he continues, dialing back the venom and cranking up the trademark Ace Trappola charm, "someone had to win eventually, right? And hey, at least it wasn't some random guy from another dorm. That would've been embarrassing."

You and Deuce exchange a look—one of those silent conversations that couples have, and isn't that just perfect? You're already developing your own language, your own secret world that doesn't include him.

"We were worried about telling you," you admit quietly. "We didn't want things to be weird between us."

Things are already weird, he wants to scream. Things have been weird since the day I realized I was in love with my best friend and did absolutely nothing about it.

Instead, he shrugs. "Why would it be weird? You're both my friends. I'm happy for you."

The lies taste like ash in his mouth.

"Really?" Deuce asks, and there's something fragile in his voice. Something that makes Ace remember they're supposed to be best friends too. That he's supposed to care about Deuce's happiness.

And he does. That's the worst part. Even through the jealousy and the pain and the way his chest feels like it's caving in on itself, he genuinely cares about Deuce. Loves him like a brother. Which makes this whole situation feel like a betrayal and a tragedy all rolled into one.

"Really," Ace says, and this time he almost means it. "You're good for each other. Deuce needs someone who'll keep him from running headfirst into traffic, and you need someone who actually listens when you talk."

Unlike me. The words hang unspoken in the air.

You beam at him, relief written all over your face, and lean over to hug him. For a moment, you're in his arms again—warm and familiar and perfect—and he lets himself pretend. Lets himself imagine this is you telling him you love him back, not you saying goodbye to whatever chance he never took.

"Thank you," you whisper against his shoulder. "This means everything."

You mean everything, he doesn't say. You meant everything, and I was too much of a coward to tell you.

Instead, he pats your back and grins when you pull away. "Yeah, yeah, don't get all sappy on me. Save that for lover boy over here."

Deuce groans and covers his face with his hands. "Please don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm absolutely calling you that. And Juicy. And honey bun. And—"

"Ace!" you and Deuce protest in unison, and the sound of your laughter mixing together is beautiful and terrible and everything he'll never have.

Later, after you've both left to go celebrate or whatever it is new couples do, Ace lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling. His phone buzzes with notifications—probably Cater posting something stupid on Magicam, or Grim demanding tuna.

He ignores it all.

The thing is, he'd always just assumed. Assumed you'd be there when he was ready. Assumed that someday, when he'd gotten his act together, when he'd figured out how to be the kind of guy who deserves someone like you—someday, you'd still be waiting.

He'd been building himself a fence, thinking he was being smart. Playing it cool. Not wanting to ruin the friendship if you didn't feel the same way. Too scared of rejection to risk it all.

But while he was busy protecting himself, Deuce was being brave. Deuce was showing up. Deuce was becoming everything Ace was too much of a coward to be.

And now Deuce gets to hold your hand in public. Gets to kiss you goodnight. Gets to wake up every day knowing he's the one you chose.

The winner takes it all.

Ace rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, finally letting the mask slip. Finally letting himself feel the full weight of what he's lost, what he never even tried to win.

His phone buzzes again. A text from you: Thanks for being so cool about this. Love you, Ace.

He stares at those three words until his vision blurs, knowing you'll never mean them the way he does when he types back: Love you too, loser.

The gods threw their dice, and someone way down here lost someone dear.

And all Ace can do is smile and pretend his heart isn't breaking.

Leona - Vil

The words hit him like a physical blow.

"Did you hear? They're dating now—officially."

Leona's grip tightens around his phone, knuckles going white as Ruggie's voice continues on the other end, oblivious to the way his housewarden's world just tilted off its axis.

"Vil and—"

He hangs up before he can hear your name spoken in the same breath as his. The phone clatters onto his desk, and Leona stares at it like it's personally offended him. Like it's the messenger he wants to shoot.

But the damage is done. The words are already echoing in his skull, bouncing around like shards of glass.

You're with him now.

Leona sinks back into his chair, one hand dragging down his face as something hot and vicious claws at his chest. It burns—Sevens, it burns like he's swallowed fire, like there's molten metal pooling in his lungs. He can't breathe around it.

He should have seen this coming. Should have known that someone like you wouldn't stay single forever. Should have known that when he let his pride and his fears drive you away, someone else would be there to catch what he'd been too much of a coward to hold onto.

And of course it had to be Vil.

Perfect, untouchable Vil Schoenheit. Everything Leona isn't and never will be. Where Leona is rough edges and lazy afternoons, Vil is polished perfection and ambition that burns brighter than the sun. Where Leona pushes people away with his sharp tongue and sharper truths, Vil draws them in with charm and grace.

The worst part? He can see it. Can see exactly why you'd choose Vil over the memory of what you had together. Vil won't make you feel like you're asking for too much when you want to hold his hand in public. Won't make you question if he actually cares when he gets distant and cold. Won't make you cry in empty hallways because he's too proud to say the words you needed to hear.

Leona's jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He wants you in his arms instead. And that's the thing that's killing him—you had belonged there. In his arms, in his space, in his life. You'd fit against him like you were made for it, like the universe had crafted you specifically to fill the hollow spaces he'd carried around his whole life. And for a while, a brief, shining while, he'd let himself believe it could last.

But he'd been a fool. Playing by rules he'd never understood, building walls when he should have been building bridges. Every time you'd reached for him, he'd pulled back. Every time you'd needed reassurance, he'd given you silence. Every time you'd tried to make it work, he'd found a new way to sabotage it.

Because that's what second sons are good for, right? Destroying things. Being the one who doesn't get the crown, doesn't get the happy ending.

The chair groans as he pushes back from his desk, stalking to the window. The sun is setting over the garden, painting everything gold and orange, and he wonders if you're watching it too. If you're watching it with him.

His reflection stares back at him from the glass—tired eyes, bitter smile, the face of someone who's lost everything that mattered and knows it's his own damn fault.

"The winner takes it all," he murmurs to his reflection, voice rough with something that might be tears if he were anyone else. If he were the kind of person who got to cry over lost love instead of just... enduring it.

But he's not. He's Leona Kingscholar, second prince of the Sunset Savanna, and he doesn't get to fall apart just because the best thing in his life chose someone better.

Even if it's ripping him apart from the inside out.

Even if he'd give anything—his pride, his title, his very soul—for one more chance to hold you and do it right this time.

Even if the thought of Vil's hands where his used to be makes him want to scream until his throat bleeds.

The sun disappears behind the horizon, and Leona closes his eyes.

Why should I complain?

Jamil - Kalim

"Jamil! Jamil, you'll never guess what happened!"

Kalim bursts through the door of Scarabia's lounge like a miniature sun, all bright smiles and boundless energy. He's practically vibrating with excitement, and Jamil doesn't need to guess what's put that particular glow in his eyes.

He already knows. Has known since he saw you and Kalim dancing together at last night's party, saw the way you laughed at something Kalim whispered in your ear, saw the way Kalim looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

"Let me guess," Jamil says, not looking up from the paperwork spread across the coffee table. His voice is perfectly level, perfectly controlled. Years of practice have made him an expert at hiding the cracks in his composure. "You asked them out."

"Yes! And they said yes!" Kalim spins around, arms spread wide like he wants to embrace the whole world. "Can you believe it? I was so nervous, but you know how you always tell me to just be honest about my feelings? So I did, and—Jamil, I think I'm in love."

The pen in Jamil's hand stops moving.

Be honest about your feelings.

Of course. Of course that's the advice that would come back to haunt him. How many times has he told Kalim exactly that? How many times has he watched him succeed simply by wearing his heart on his sleeve, by being brave in all the ways Jamil has never allowed himself to be?

Jamil clears his throat, forces the words out.

"I'm happy for you."

And the truly devastating part is that he means it. Even as his own heart is crumbling to dust in his chest, even as every breath feels like swallowing glass, he genuinely wants Kalim to be happy. Because that's what he's been trained to do his entire life—put Kalim's happiness above his own.

Even when it destroys him.

"I have to plan the perfect date," Kalim continues, oblivious to the way Jamil's world has just collapsed. "Maybe a carpet ride at sunset? Or we could have a picnic by the oasis! Oh, or—"

"The carpet ride," Jamil interrupts quietly. "They mentioned once that they'd always wanted to try flying."

You'd mentioned it to him. During one of those late-night conversations when it was just the two of them in the kitchen, when you'd help him prep for the next day's meals and talk about everything and nothing. You'd looked so wistful when you said it, so quietly longing, and Jamil had filed it away in his heart like every other precious detail about you.

He'd planned to take you himself. Had been working up the courage for weeks, crafting the perfect moment in his mind. After the next exam, he'd told himself. After Kalim's birthday celebration. After the inter-dorm tournament. Always after, always waiting for the perfect moment that would never come.

"Really?" Kalim's face lights up even brighter, if that's possible. "You always know exactly what people want, Jamil. You're the best!"

The praise feels like a knife between his ribs.

"I should go tell them now!" Kalim heads for the door, then pauses and turns back. "Actually, wait. You don't mind, do you? I know you two are friends, and I don't want things to be weird..."

Mind? Jamil wants to laugh, wants to scream, wants to grab Kalim by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that this isn't just friendship, that Jamil has been desperately, hopelessly in love with you for months.

But he can't. Because Kalim is looking at him with such genuine concern, such innocent worry about disrupting a friendship, and it's clear that Kalim has no idea. No clue that Jamil's feelings run deeper than casual companionship.

And why would he? Jamil has spent so long hiding, so long keeping every emotion locked behind layers of duty and propriety and fear. So long being the perfect servant who wants for nothing, who exists only to facilitate his master's happiness.

"Of course not," Jamil says, and his voice doesn't even waver. "Why would I mind? You're perfect for each other."

More perfect than we could ever be.

The thought tastes bitter as poison. Because it's true, isn't it? Kalim can offer you everything Jamil can't. Freedom. Adventure. A future without the weight of servitude hanging over every moment. Kalim can love you openly, publicly, without having to hide behind carefully constructed walls.

Kalim can give you the world. Jamil can barely give you an honest conversation about his feelings.

"Thanks, Jamil!" Kalim beams and rushes out, leaving Jamil alone with the wreckage of his carefully guarded heart.

The paperwork blurs in front of him. The numbers don't make sense anymore, each figure dissolving into meaningless shapes as something hot and desperate claws at his throat.

He'd been so careful. So cautious. Waiting for the right moment, the right words, the right everything. Terrified of rejection, yes, but more terrified of what acceptance might mean. How could he ask you to tie yourself to someone who isn't even free? Someone who can't promise you anything beyond stolen moments and hidden affection?

But while he was busy protecting himself, protecting you from the complications his feelings would bring, Kalim was simply... being Kalim. Open. Honest. Brave in the way that only someone who's never had to hide can be.

The winner takes it all, and the loser has to fall.

Jamil sets down his pen and buries his face in his hands, finally allowing himself this one moment of weakness. This one moment to mourn what never was and never could have been.

Tomorrow, he'll smile and congratulate you both. He'll help plan the perfect dates and give the perfect advice and be the perfect friend, because that's what's expected of him. That's what he's good at.

But tonight, in the silence of his own failure, Jamil lets himself grieve for the love he was too afraid to fight for.

Masterlist

[screamlet]

911 what is your pride (week 4; sex & romance)

@911whatisyourpride thank you for running this project 💖🌈

bucktommy, 1k a short future coda to drag bingo night at shelley's (tumblr) leaning heavy on the romance here! this coda is now on the ao3!

---

It's been two months since Evan invited him out to drag bingo night, and a month since they decided to give their relationship another try. That's why Tommy's parked outside the 133 at 7:45 AM, his truck packed for their first weekend away. Ever.

This time last year they were together and every time they talked about a romantic getaway, they would end up in bed before either of them could suggest a place to go. Just the idea of getting away was a thrill; a year later, they were starting to understand the value of actually getting away.

His watch alarm lets him know it's 7:50 and Evan will be done with his shift any minute. Tommy's losing time and losing his nerve for this—this stupid little—

"You're an idiot," Tommy says to himself as he climbs out of the truck. "You've flown helicopters through combat zones and wildfires and a goddamned hurricane, but picking up your boyfriend from work, somehow that's scarier. Somehow. Somehow."

Yeah, but if you crash and burn in those scenarios, you only die once, his brain helpfully reminds him. Embarrassing yourself in front of your boyfriend and his coworkers—that's forever.

"Forever? If I'm lucky," Tommy mumbles under his breath as he jogs across the street.

The 133's bay doors are open and both the A-shift and B-shift crews are milling around, saying hi and catching up before they go their separate ways. Tommy looks around for familiar faces, but only sees Cristy as she laughs with a couple of people, and Captain Mehta, clapping the B-shift captain on the shoulder as he leaves his office.

And then there's Evan, half-hidden behind one of the engines with a handful of people. Something makes him laugh uproariously, full-body doubled-over laughter that has him wiping his eyes when he straightens up again. That's when he spots Tommy and waves wildly at him from all of 15 feet away.

"Tommy! Oh my god, Tommy." Evan drops his duffel bag unceremoniously and crosses the floor to him. "Hey, can I introduce you?" Evan asks quietly.

"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah of course."

"Okay, great," Evan whispers, pulling him into a giant hug with a kiss on the cheek. Then he turns around and yells, inches from Tommy's ear: "Hey, everyone, this is my boyfriend, Tommy!"

Cristy laughs loudly. "Tommy Kinard from Harbor Station, were you lurking behind that ambulance? Get in here."

He gives her a quick hug and waves at everyone, trying not to feel like a pageant contestant who's been called on stage to perform his special talent. Evan distracts him, though, as he points to something in Tommy's hand. "Tommy, what's that?" Evan asks, his smile lighting him from the inside. "Is that for me?"

And that's when Tommy remembers what had him ready to crumble from embarrassment in the truck, why it took him so long to actually leave the truck and come get Evan. It's the fully bloomed, dark and rich red rose that Tommy had seen growing off a rosebush as he was leaving his own shift at Harbor. It was from a random wild rosebush that didn't belong to anyone, so no one would mind if Tommy took out his pocket knife and cut one to bring to Evan.

"It's for you," Tommy says, holding it out to him. "Sorry, I—I feel really silly coming in here with like—like I'm on The Bachelor or something, or picking you up for prom, but I saw this on my way over and thought—I thought you might like it."

Evan accepts it with a smile. He looks at it and brushes the petals against his fingers before he holds it out to Tommy again. "Touch the petals, they're so soft. I think that's the best part of flowers. My favorite part, anyway." Tommy touches the petals, too, and their eyes meet as their fingers brush together, touching the rose.

"I love it," Evan says, and throws his arms around Tommy's neck, right there in front of the captains and firefighters and paramedics and anyone walking on the sidewalk past the bay doors. Anyone and everyone can see; it feels so good to hold Evan like this in his arms.

"Thank you," Evan says, his voice gentle, almost a whisper.

Tommy almost says, for what, it's just a flower, but he knows them both better than that. He pulls away and brushes a few stray curls from Evan's forehead, then kisses him. It's quick and chaste (only one whooooo from the crew), but Evan looks at him with those dark eyes and the dazed expression he seems to save for him, for Tommy. They could stay in this spot for years if Tommy's watch didn't beep for the top of the hour.

"Shift's over," Tommy says. "Ready for our road trip?"

"Yeah," Evan says, "wait, yeah, just a second." He slings his duffel bag across his chest and then grabs Tommy's hand to lead him out the bay doors. He waves goodbye to everyone and then holds the rose up to Tommy's face. "I think I've got everything. How about you?"

Some past Tommy would howl and kick his ass at what present Tommy's about to say, but that past Tommy didn't have Evan in his life. Past Tommy could stay quiet and learn a thing or two, like how to be happy. It was a skill, a real thing he and Evan were learning to do, and sometimes it meant small gestures that felt like the whole world.

"Well, I've got you," Tommy says. "I think that's all I need."

Evan looks taken aback, then blushes and lightly shoulder checks him. "Yeah, okay," he mumbles, but he can't hide his grin. As they climb in the truck and buckle up, Evan leans over and kisses him again—they can't hide a damn thing.

[natsaffection]

Redline. Bonus 6 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Mention of sex, fluff, fluff, fluff

Word count: 8,7k

A/n: First of all, I added Yelena again! Totally forgot her in the last bonus :,) Second, I wish you could see the thoughts/pictures in my head while writing and rereading those scenes. And third? I want a marriage. Immediately.

The sheets were a mess. The pillows were barely holding shape, pushed to opposite ends of the bed like casualties. Somewhere on the floor was your sports bra, one sock, and the remote that Natasha swore she wasn’t going to lose again.

And she was grinning. Natasha shifted slowly, lifting herself from between your legs with the unhurried satisfaction of someone who had definitely proven a point. Her hair was a mess, strands clinging to her cheekbones, and her lips were still a little swollen, glistening just slightly with a kind of shine that wasn’t from the lotion.

And you groaned. A soft, wrecked sound. Not from pain. From everything else.

Your arm fell lazily across your stomach, your chest rising and falling in the afterglow of something that had burned slow and deep, like it always did with her. Natasha was climbing up the bed, moving slow like she had nowhere else to be. She nudged your thigh with her knee as she crawled over you, her smirk lazy and knowing and a little proud, even.

You let out a tiny laugh, breathy, exhausted. Your fingers reached weakly for her, as if even the strength to pull her close had been…extracted.

“Hey.” she whispered, pressing her lips gently against your temple.

You made a noise that could have meant hi, I love you, or please let me die peacefully right here. She smiled again.

“You’re unbelievable..” she murmured, dragging her fingers lazily along your arm. “You know that?”

You barely moved. Maybe nodded. Maybe not. “Fast on the track..”she said softly, her voice almost smug, “but this…this is where you really shine.”

Your body jerked, just slightly, in something like laughter. Or embarrassment. Your lips moved but you didn’t form words. Your lashes fluttered once, twice, then stilled. Natasha kissed your bare shoulder. Let out a breath she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.

You didn’t need to say I love you. It was stitched into the air between you. Into every breath. Into the way your legs stayed tangled, the way your nose brushed hers in the dark, the way your body turned toward hers even in sleep.

She kissed your jaw, then your temple. “Sleep.” she whispered, voice like silk now. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

And you did. You melted into her, mouth slack with peace, fingers loose over her ribs. And Natasha held you until morning.

The light broke slow and quiet over the horizon, filtering through pale curtains that hadn’t been drawn fully shut. Outside the window, the paddock was already waking, distant engine testing, someone shouting about a torque wrench. But up here, in bed, the world was still.

Natasha stirred first. Her body shifted against empty sheets, the absence of warmth beside her immediate and noticeable. For a moment, her muscles tensed, not fear, not alarm, just that deep-seated instinct to look, to check.

But then, from behind the half-cracked bathroom door, she heard the soft rush of water.

She exhaled, and relaxed. Her hand slipped beneath the pillow automatically, pulling out her phone. The screen glowed bright in the half-dark.

7:42 am.

Her calendar buzzed softly.

9:00 – Sponsor call (Zoom)

12:30 – Fitting (Race jacket)

15:00 – Strategy meeting with Willow + trackwalk

20:00 – Dinner with Y/n? (optional - ask)

She added a mental note next to that last one: Definitely. She smiled, thumbed the phone off, and turned onto her side to face the bathroom. Moments later, the door creaked open.

And there you were. Hair up in a messy bun, one of Natasha’s old team shirts hanging halfway off your shoulder wrinkled, oversized, clearly slept in too many times. Your legs bare, skin soft with fresh lotion. A toothbrush sticking out the corner of your mouth, and that squinty, just-woke-up look still clinging to your expression.

You stopped when you saw her awake. She didn’t say a word, just smiled, slow and warm, like you were the first sunrise she’d ever seen.

You mumbled something that sounded like “morning.” around your toothbrush, disappearing again into the bathroom.

“Come here.” she called softly when she heard the faucet shut off.

You reappeared, sleepy but obedient, and padded over to the bed. “Still got foam in my mouth..”you muttered.

“Don’t care.” You crawled up onto the bed, and Natasha pulled you in the second you were close enough, an arm around your waist, a hand at the back of your thigh, guiding you into her body like it was muscle memory. You fell against her chest with a sigh, your forehead pressing under her jaw.

“Gonna fall asleep again..” you warned, mumbling into her skin.

“You better.”

She kissed your temple again. Ran her fingers down your spine. You let out a tiny, happy sound. She smiled into your hair, her other hand smoothing lazy circles over your hip. She could feel your breathing begin to slow again, your body going heavy, limp in that exact way it only did when you trusted her completely.

She closed her eyes too, content, but then- The door flew open.

“Well!” came a too-familiar voice, “I leave the country for four months and this place smells like sex and sleep deprivation.”

Natasha groaned. Yelena was standing in the doorway, suitcase still in one hand, eyebrow raised. You flinched violently and tried to sit up.

“No..!” Natasha muttered, dragging you back down with a grumble. “Ignore her. She’s a fever dream.”

“I’m a gift!” Yelena shot back, stepping inside like she lived here. “I came to see if anything changed while I was gone.”

Her eyes swept the room, the messy sheets, the tangled limbs, your shirt (her sister’s shirt), your sleepy face tucked into Natasha’s neck. A grin spread across her face.

“Nope.” she said. “Still filthy.”

Breakfast happened the way it always did the morning, quiet, slow, and mostly carb-based.

You moved around the kitchenette barefoot, still in Natasha’s shirt, flipping pieces of toast one-handed while yawning so wide your jaw cracked. Yelena had made herself at home already, slouched at the table in an old hoodie, tearing through the box of cereal she found in the cabinet with zero shame.

Natasha leaned against the counter, arms crossed, a mug of black coffee cupped between her palms. Her eyes didn’t leave you once.

Not when you burned your finger on the pan and hissed. Not when you leaned over the counter to grab a plate and the hem of her shirt lifted almost too high. Not even when you caught her watching you and rolled your eyes with that dopey, affectionate half-smile she’d come to love.

You moved like you belonged there..Because you did. She watched you set a plate down in front of her and brush your fingers across her shoulder as you passed behind her. Something about the way you touched her in passing, without thought, without fear, made her chest ache in the softest, cruelest way.

You were just there. Always. And lately…she couldn’t picture anything without you in it.

“Eat, Romanoff.” you said over your shoulder, grabbing your own coffee.

It was maybe twenty minutes later when your phone buzzed on the table. You glanced down, read the message, then stood up.

“That’s Willow.” you said, already downing the last of your coffee. “Track run starts early. She wants to warm up before the trainers get there.”

Yelena lifted an eyebrow. “It’s Sunday.”

“She’s got a competitive streak.” you said, stretching your arms over your head. “And apparently, so do I.”

Natasha caught your wrist as you passed her. You paused, turned, leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Back by lunch.”

“Wear sunblock.” Natasha murmured.

You gave her a look. “Yes, Mom.”

She smacked your ass lightly as you walked away. Yelena made a dramatic gagging noise. The second the door clicked shut, Yelena spoke, flat, direct, amused.

“You’re planning something.”

Natasha looked up from her coffee. Blinked. “What?”

“You’re planning something.”

“I am drinking coffee and existing.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face like she was reading engine telemetry. Natasha stared back, blank and unimpressed.

“Natasha.”

“I’m serious.”

“You haven’t blinked since she left.”

Natasha opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked down. Yelena tilted her head. “You’re so obvious. You’ve been staring at her like she’s made of diamonds since I walked in.”

“She is made of diamonds.” Natasha muttered.

Yelena’s face broke into a wide, knowing smile. “Oh, my God. You’re in love love.”

“I’ve been in love love.”

“Yeah, but now you’re..wait. Wait. Wait.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “Are you proposing?”

Natasha jerked like she’d been slapped. “What?!”

Yelena gasped, fully standing now, pointing like she’d caught her red-handed. “You are!”

Natasha groaned. She stood abruptly and walked toward the kitchen door. She locked it. Then turned around slowly. Yelena was watching her like a cat who’d cornered a bird.

And for the first time that morning, Natasha’s shoulders dropped. Just a little.. She leaned against the door, silent for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “…I’m thinking about it.”

Yelena blinked. Then slowly, slowly grinned. “Holy shit.”

“I haven’t told anyone.” Natasha said, voice low. “Not Willow. Not Mom. Not the team.”

Yelena placed a hand on her heart. “I feel so honored.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

A beat passed. Then Natasha said, “I was watching her this morning. She wasn’t even doing anything. Just making toast in my shirt. Talking to you. And I just…I couldn’t stop thinking about how there’s no one else. Ever.”

Yelena softened a little, finally. “You’re sure?”

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything.”

“Then do it.”

“I want to.” Natasha said quietly. “I just…want to do it right.” Natasha just smiled, staring off into the middle distance, already planning.

The day burned fast under the late-afternoon sun, laps, drills, strategy sessions, hydration reminders barked over headsets. Heat shimmered off the asphalt like water. The trainers looked ready to drop by hour five.

You didn’t. Neither did Willow, who had started pushing the pace in your second run just to see if you’d flinch. You hadn’t. You’d smirked and gone faster. Somewhere between the second cooldown and the post-run debrief, Natasha had shown up.

Silent at first. Leaning against the fence, sunglasses on, black polo hugging her shoulders like it was designed just for her.

She hadn’t spoken much, just corrected Willow’s hand placement during turn 7 corner drills, nodded once when you passed your time mark, and pointed silently toward the brake zone when you clipped it too late in the simulator review.

Classic Natasha, no fanfare..just presence. By the time the sun dipped behind the last of the temporary paddock structures, the track was empty again. Lights buzzing. Water bottles half-drunk. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and the wind-down of something intense.

You made your way through the garage and up the stairs to her office, muscles aching, tank top clinging to your back, sun just barely kissing your shoulders.

You didn’t knock. You never knocked anymore. Natasha was at her desk, glasses on, typing something into her laptop with one hand and scrolling through telemetry with the other. The light from the screen painted her in soft gold and navy, the faint shadows under her eyes more from focus than fatigue.

You leaned your shoulder into the doorframe. “Day’s over.”

She didn’t look up, just tapped one last key, then reached forward and shut the laptop in one clean, casual motion.

You blinked. “You don’t even want to save that?”

She shrugged. “Autosaves. And I trust the system.”

“Liar.” you muttered, stepping inside.

She was already watching you now, elbows on the arms of her chair, legs slightly parted, expression unreadable except for the faint, quiet pull at the corner of her mouth.

The kind she saved just for you. You crossed to her without thinking and slid around the desk. And then, like you’d done it a thousand times before, you climbed onto her thighs, knees bracketing her hips, hands coming to rest on her shoulders. Her palms found your waist instantly. Like gravity.

You sat like that for a second. Breathing the same air. Then you dipped your head slightly to meet her eyes. “How was your day?”

Her hands flexed a little against your sides. “Better now.”

You smiled, warm and a little smug. “Sappy.”

“Accurate.” she replied, deadpan.

You leaned in and pressed your forehead to hers. She let out a breath, steady and long, like she’d been holding it all day. Like this was the only part of her routine that really made sense.

Your thumb stroked the edge of her jaw. “You showed up today.” you said softly.

“You noticed?”

“You didn’t say much, but I always know when you’re watching.”

She smiled again. This one softer. “I’m always watching.”

You kissed her. Once, slowly. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t about the thrill. It was just there, true and quiet and deeply, completely familiar. Her hands moved from your waist to your back, then up, then down again, sliding under your shirt, just enough to feel your skin.

You let yourself relax into her body. The office was warm, and the hum of the vending machine down the hall was the only thing filling the silence. Eventually, Natasha murmured, “Come to bed.”

You nodded, curling closer. “Yeah.” you said, yawning into her neck. “Okay.”

She didn’t carry you, but she guided you, hand at the small of your back, thumb idly tracing patterns on your side as you walked side by side down the hall and toward her suite. Neither of you spoke much. There was nothing left to say tonight. At least not yet.. But Natasha’s hand didn’t leave yours for a single step.

The morning came like any other. You were standing in the bathroom, towel-wrapped, holding a toothbrush in your mouth while mumbling something about how if Willow made you run laps before 10 am again, you were going to rearrange her face.

Natasha watched you from the bed. She was already dressed, black slacks, clean white shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, hair down but combed neatly. There was something quietly put-together about her, like she was going somewhere important. But she didn’t say anything yet.

She just sipped her coffee. Watched you move around like you belonged in every inch of her space.

“You look nice today.” you called out, voice muffled by toothpaste. “Business call?”

Natasha didn’t even flinch. “Mm. Something like that.”

You popped your head out of the bathroom with a grin. “Tell the sponsors I’m cute and deserve a raise.”

“I’ll forward them your highlight reel.”

“Make sure it includes the clip where I lapped that Red Bull junior last season.”

“Obviously.”

You disappeared again, humming off-key. Natasha glanced down at her phone, checked the time. 08:19. Her GPS was already loaded, address blurred at the top of the screen. She’d spent an hour the night before staring at it, just…thinking. What if they said no? What if they didn’t trust her? What if she didn’t deserve to be trusted?

She swallowed that down now. No room for it. Not today. You reappeared a moment later in leggings and a cropped team hoodie, sleepy but glowing from your shower, eyes still a little soft at the corners. You leaned down to kiss her before pulling your shoes on.

“Track with Willow.” you said. “Want anything on the way back?”

“Just you.” Natasha said automatically.

You blinked. Then smiled, slow, crooked. “You’re being sweet.”

“I’m always sweet.”

“You’re always rude, and then sweet when you want something.”

She reached out to tug your hoodie down, smoothing a wrinkle over your stomach. “I already have what I want.”

You paused at the door. Then shook your head and grinned again. “You’re gonna make me late.”

Natasha watched you leave with something unspoken in her chest. When the door closed behind you, she finally let out the breath she’d been holding since she woke up.

The drive was quiet. Her playlist on shuffle. City traffic melting into suburban roads. She kept one hand on the steering wheel and one on her thigh, thumb tapping out an anxious rhythm that only got faster the closer she got.

She sat in the car for exactly thirty-five seconds before getting out. Her boots clicked against the stone walkway. The door opened before she could knock.

Your mom stood there in a sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back, eyes widening in pleasant surprise. “Natasha?”

Natasha cleared her throat. “Hi.”

“Oh my God, come in, come in.”

She stepped aside and Natasha entered, carefully wiping her boots on the mat like you always told her to. The house smelled like coffee and old wood and something warm in the oven. Your father appeared a moment later, smile already forming.

“This is a surprise.” he said, offering his hand.

“I hope it’s a good one.”

“It is. It’s just- what brings you?”

Natasha hesitated. She folded her hands in front of her for a moment. Unfolded them. Smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looked at them both.

“I was wondering.. “she said slowly, “if I could talk to you…about something important.”

Your mother exchanged a glance with your father. Then gestured to the living room. “You want coffee?”

Natasha sat on the couch. Hands on her knees. She tried not to fidget. She was good at being composed in high-stakes situations. But this? This wasn’t business. This wasn’t strategy. This was you. And somehow, that made it harder.

So when your parents returned and sat across from her, mugs in hand, Natasha met their eyes and did something she almost never did: She let herself be nervous.

“I love your daughter.” She said. There was no preamble. Just the truth.

“I think you know that. I think maybe you’ve known it longer than I did. But I’m here because I want to do this the right way. She’s strong, and independent, and stubborn as hell, but…she still believes in things like respect. And tradition. And family.”

Your mom’s eyes were glassy already. Your dad didn’t speak, just watched. Natasha kept going. Soft now.

“I want to marry her. And before I ask her…I wanted to ask you.”

Your dad set down his coffee. Exhaled slowly. Looked Natasha in the eye. “She’s always been intense. Impossible to sway once she decides on something.”

“I know.” Natasha said.

“And hard to love, sometimes. But the right person…” He smiled faintly. “Makes it look easy.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. Your mom reached across and put her hand on Natasha’s.

“We’d be honored to have you in the family.”

The breath she let out wasn’t dramatic, wasn’t shaky, it was simply relief. Pure and honest.

“Thank you.” She said, meaning every word.

——

You were halfway through a breakdown of tire compound degradation when you realized Natasha hadn’t said a word in almost three minutes.

“I’m just saying..” you continued, hands flailing as you paced barefoot across the room, hair still damp from your shower, “Pirelli has got to be cooking something illegal because that soft compound today? Willow said it felt like she was skating on frozen yogurt.”

Natasha didn’t respond. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, phone held casually in her palm, thumb flicking upward in slow, deliberate motions.

Totally silent. You slowed a little, narrowing your eyes. “Are you even listening?”

“Hm?” she said without looking up.

You stopped mid-pace, towel still draped over your shoulder. “What are you doing..?”

“Nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ never looks that intense on your face.”

She tilted the phone slightly away from view, subtle, smooth, practiced. Which meant guilty.

You squinted. Natasha glanced up at you then, and for a split second, just one, you saw it. That little shine in her eyes. The slight pink at the tops of her cheeks. The way the corners of her mouth were tugging up like she was sitting on a secret the size of a small country.

You narrowed your eyes further. Stepped forward. “You’re way too happy right now.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re, like…glowing.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“That’s the problem. You only sit like that when you’ve made a decision.”

She didn’t answer. You sat beside her on the bed, thigh pressed to hers, and leaned in to peer at her screen. She pulled it back slightly, but not too obviously.

Your brows lifted. “Nat…”

“Hm.”

“…What are you doing?”

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and the grin that threatened to take over her face barely made it to the surface before she smothered it like a match under water.

“Nothing important.” she said smoothly. “Just… planning.”

“Planning what?”

You were playful, curious. Almost a little suspicious, but not in a real way. And she didn’t lie. She didn’t say “email” or “strategy notes” or “logistics.” She just smiled, slow, unreadable, dangerous, and leaned in to kiss your cheek.

“I’ll show you when it’s ready. I promise.” she murmured.

You groaned dramatically, throwing yourself backward onto the mattress. “You’re so mysterious..” you complained, one arm flung over your eyes.

Natasha looked down at you. You, in your hoodie and bike shorts, legs still slick with lotion, hair damp, skin warm from the shower, heart beating in the same room as hers. She glanced back at her phone. There it was: the search bar still open, photos scrolled halfway down the page.

Custom rings, understated but personal.

Nothing was quite right yet. She’d seen diamonds, vintage cuts, silver, gold, even motorsport-inspired ones with carbon fiber edges, but none of them looked like you.

She’d know it when she saw it. And when she did, she was going to ask you a question that would change everything…But not yet. For now, she just smiled again, quietly, and set the phone down facedown on the bedside table.

Then she lay beside you. Her arm tucked beneath your neck. Your body curling into hers without hesitation. “Wake me when you’re ready to stop being mysterious..”you mumbled.

“I’ll keep you guessing forever.” she whispered back. And you didn’t see her grin as you fell asleep.

——

The lights above the track glowed red in sequence: one, two, three, four… And then the roar.

The engines launched forward in a deafening scream of velocity, tires burning against asphalt, two cars slicing through the opening straight like they were being pulled by gravity itself. You were already pushing. Willow was behind you, not by much, but enough to make it personal.

Natasha stood on the pit wall, arms crossed over her black headset, mouth set in a tight line of focus. Her eyes flicked between monitors, her voice low but sharp over the comms.

“Y/n, adjust your entry on Turn 6, your angle’s too wide.”

“Willow, settle. Let her take the corner. You’ll lose time fighting it.”

“Copy.” came Willow’s voice, crisp and unbothered.

“Got it.” you said, your voice tight with focus, breathing controlled, jaw locked. You weren’t losing this race to your own teammate.

The pit team scrambled behind her, the buzz of radios and tire updates filling the background. The pace was fast, clean, brutal. Everything was going according to plan. Until Natasha’s phone lit up on the pit desk.

Natasha’s eyes flicked down, barely a glance…and froze. She stared at the number for a second longer than she should’ve. “Yelena.” Natasha said, her voice sharp in her headset’s private channel. “You’re up.”

“Copy.” Yelena answered immediately from the control stand behind her. “Taking lead.”

No confusion. No hesitation. This was protocol. They’d trained for it. Natasha pulled off her headset, handed it off, and stepped back from the pit wall like a ghost disappearing from a battlefield.

You took the chicane tighter than you had all season, DRS humming behind you. Willow was still in your mirrors, but you’d started to gain tenths.

Then your radio clicked. Yelena’s voice came through, “Y/n, brake modulation is drifting into early lockup on sector three. You’ve got one, maybe two pushes before you burn the tires. Stay calm. Adjust on the straight.”

You blinked under your visor. It wasn’t the instruction. It was the voice.

“…Where’s Natasha?”

“Handling something. You’ve got me for now.”

“…She handed off pit command mid-race?”

“Focus, brat. You’re not that special.” That earned a tight smirk from you, but the unease didn’t fade.

Natasha never stepped away during race hours. Not unless someone was bleeding. Not unless something was burning. You kept driving, but your brain wasn’t fully in the cockpit anymore.

Meanwhile Natasha pressed the phone to her ear and turned away from the track noise. “Thank you for calling back.”

“I had a feeling it wasn’t a business visit when your assistant asked for a full day’s access to the main building.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. “I want it empty.” Natasha said. “No press. No drivers. Just a few quiet hours.”

“You’ll have it.”

She closed her eyes..and smiled. It wasn’t just a win. It was a statement.

You and Willow didn’t just take first and second, you owned the circuit. Her defending while you overtook on the inside of Turn 8 made the replay highlight reel within minutes. The crowd had been deafening when you crossed the line with a lead wide enough to start waving to the mechanics.

The champagne was still in your hair when Willow wrapped her arm around your shoulder and yelled, “One–two, baby!” into the camera crew’s mic.

Natasha hadn’t been in the post-race picture. Which… wasn’t that unusual. She hated media. But it still felt strange. You found her twenty minutes later, by the garage office, wiping something off her tablet screen like she hadn’t just watched her team win the day.

She looked up just as you approached, her face calm, but there was something in her eyes..an intensity you couldn’t quite read.

“We did it.” you said breathlessly, your fireproof suit half-peeled down, a medal swinging from your neck. “I mean..we actually did it.”

Her mouth twitched upward. “I know. I watched.”

You stepped closer. Noticing how her tablet screen was off now. Locked. Her headset on the desk.

“Why did Yelena take pit for the last ten laps?” you asked. “You’ve never handed it off before.”

Natasha paused..just a breath. “There was a call I needed to take.”

“Important?”

She met your eyes.

“Yes.”

That one word. Was Honest and final. But vague. You wanted to push, but didn’t. Not when she looked like that. Not when her hand rose to touch your back in the exact spot that always melted you.

“Okay.” you whispered.

And she exhaled like she was relieved you hadn’t asked more.

A Few Days Later

The air in Natasha’s office always smelled like iced coffee and motorsport stress. You were halfway leaned over Willow’s shoulder, both of you reviewing telemetry data from warm-up laps, while Natasha sat at her desk, tapping absentmindedly at her tablet, occasionally nodding along.

Yelena stood in the corner, flipping a pen in her hand, pretending to be uninterested while keeping an actual checklist in her mind of every bolt she’d personally tighten later.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said. “Start warm-ups in fifteen. Willow, check brakes with the new cooling setup. Y/n, monitor throttle feedback- if it jitters again, pull out. Don’t push it.”

Willow saluted sarcastically. “Yes, Coach.”

You threw her a smirk. “Race you to the garage.”

“Always.”

You both left laughing, arguing about who had the better turn-in last race, your voices fading into the hallway.

The door clicked shut, and Natasha waited one more second, then reached into the locked drawer of her desk. She pulled out a small, black velvet box.

Yelena stopped flipping the pen. She watched as Natasha turned it slowly in her hand…then opened it.

The ring caught the light, not flashy, not oversized. Sleek platinum. Matte center. A tiny diamond, pressed low into the band, like it belonged there, not showing off. There was something engraved on the inside. Yelena couldn’t see it from here.

Yelena whispered, “Holy shit.”

“I know.” Natasha said quietly. “I kept thinking I’d mess it up. That I’d pick wrong. But when I saw this one…I just knew.”

Yelena stepped closer, voice soft. “You’ve already rehearsed what you’re going to say, haven’t you?”

Natasha looked away, just slightly. “Sort of.”

“Oh, wow. You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“You’ve been blinking in threes.”

Natasha let out a low breath through her nose. “Yelena.”

But Yelena just grinned, tilting her head. “I’m serious.” she said. “This is the first time I’ve ever seen you nervous and not holding a tablet.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and gently closed the ring box, tucking it back into the drawer with care like it was fragile.

“I’m not nervous.” she repeated, quieter now. “I’m just…ready. And I have to wait.”

Yelena’s teasing faded at the edges. “You okay with that?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Natasha said. “The track isn’t clear until next week. I’d propose tomorrow if I could, but-“

“You’re waiting for the right place.” Yelena finished.

Footsteps. “Hey, I left my-”

You stepped halfway inside before pausing, eyes flicking between them. Yelena froze where she stood, clearly mid-sentence before you’d entered.

And Natasha, without even looking, cut the air with a single word: “Don’t.”

Yelena’s mouth snapped shut instantly, blinking twice like someone had unplugged her. You raised a slow eyebrow, stepping farther into the room. “Should I come back?”

“No.” Natasha said smoothly, already recovering. She turned, leaned one hip against the desk. “We’re done here.”

Yelena’s hands shot up. “All I wanted to-”

Natasha shot her a look, and Yelena’s hands dropped. You eyed them both suspiciously, then pointed a finger in Yelena’s direction.

“You’ve got the worst poker face.”

“Disagree.” Yelena said, already backing toward the door. “I am the epitome of calm under pressure.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s going on.”

Natasha only smirked. Then crossed the room and kissed your cheek, cool, easy, perfect Natasha.

“Nothing yet.” she murmured into your skin. And Yelena, thankfully, kept her mouth shut.

The plan was set.

Track was cleared. The manager had sent a confirmation message. Yelena had helped prep the excuse: a “private team meeting off-site.”

The ring was in Natasha’s bag, tucked inside an old glove case, the same gloves you used to wear when working pit crew for scraps and long shifts.

Everything was ready…and Natasha was falling apart.

3 Days left.

She woke up before you. Lay there in the dark, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while you slept with your arm flung over her waist, your cheek pressed to her shoulder.

You shifted in your sleep, murmured something about Willow snoring in the simulator lounge. She didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Her fingers twitched once. She thought about reaching for the ring. Just to hold it.

Instead, she exhaled and slipped out from under you. She made coffee and didn’t drink it. She sat in the kitchen with the lights off.

2 Days left.

You noticed. Not in a loud way. Not with suspicion. Just that slow, quiet sinking feeling when the person you love starts looking at you like they’re thinking too much.

Natasha wasn’t cold. She just wasn’t present. She’d nod at you during meetings, touch your waist when you passed, give you small, soft looks like she was thinking about something, but she wouldn’t say anything.

And that silence started to hurt. That night, as you stood at the sink brushing your teeth, you caught her watching you.

“Did I do something?” you asked, foam in your mouth.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You spit. Turned toward her. “I know when something’s in your head. And I’m not mad. I just..don’t want to feel like I’m losing you in it.”

That.

That almost cracked her. Natasha stepped forward, hands brushing your hips, lips finding your forehead.

“I’m right here.” she whispered. And for a second..you believed her.

1 Day left.

Yelena found her sitting in the simulator bay, lights off, helmet bag beside her. “You look like someone shot your dog.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Yelena stepped forward, leaned her back against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“She’s starting to wonder.” she said gently.

“I know.”

“Why aren’t you telling her?”

“I want it to be perfect.”

“She doesn’t need perfect.”

Natasha looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red, not from crying, just lack of sleep.

“She deserves it.”

Yelena softened. “You’re making her feel like you’re slipping away.”

Natasha closed her eyes.

“I know.”

Hours later, you curled up beside her in bed. She held you, arms tight, jaw resting on the top of your head.

You whispered: “Just talk to me.”

But she didn’t. And you fell asleep not knowing why your chest hurt. And she stayed awake listening to your heartbeat, counting every second she had left to fix it.

The day started too quietly for Natasha, which was dangerous. Stillness meant thinking, and thinking meant spiraling. So she planned every hour. She laid out the day like a race strategy: nothing left open, nothing unstructured. Not for you, and definitely not for herself.

You woke still curled against her side, warm and half-asleep. Natasha smiled against your temple, kissed your hair, and murmured, “Up. Big day.” You didn’t question it. Just smiled, rolled over, and reached for the nearest shirt like it was any other morning.

Breakfast was at a café she’d remembered you mentioning weeks ago, one you thought she’d forgotten. You lit up when you saw it, all soft surprise and sleepy joy, and she pretended like it wasn’t a big deal, even though your smile was the only thing keeping her breathing evenly. She picked at her toast while you ranted about tire data and Willow’s “cowardly” approach to cornering. She barely said a word, but you didn’t notice, not with jam on your cheek and sunshine on your face.

Midday, she roped you into a “gear review” with Yelena at the supplier garage. You were suspicious for about five seconds before Yelena started arguing passionately about zipper strength, and you gave up, laughing. Natasha just stood back and watched, arms crossed over her chest, every muscle tight with the effort of looking casual. When Yelena slipped and said “big day” Natasha shot her a look so sharp it could’ve stripped paint. But you were too busy trying on windbreakers to notice. Barely.

You noticed, just a little. The way she stared longer than usual. The way her fingers tapped her own arm when she thought you weren’t looking. But you didn’t push.

The day stretched into golden hour. You were brushing your hair out in front of the mirror, debating whether Natasha was planning a surprise dinner. She hadn’t said a word about your evening plans. And then your phone buzzed.

From Natasha:

“Meet me at my car in ten.”

You smiled. The answer was yes: she was planning something. Probably a dinner reservation or a rooftop or something ridiculous and romantic. You grabbed your jacket, a little bounce in your step as you took the elevator down to the private garage.

She was already there, leaning against the black SUV like it was a magazine cover shoot. Jacket clean, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses off. She looked calm. Effortlessly cool. But you knew her. Her shoulders were too stiff. Her jaw too tight. Still, she smiled when she saw you. That rare, quiet, completely yours kind of smile.

“Date night?” you teased as you approached.

She opened the passenger door for you, smooth and confident. “After you.” she said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re being suspiciously charming..”

“Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, but got in anyway. She shut the door behind you gently. You adjusted your seat, glanced toward the side mirror, and froze for just a second.

Yelena was standing by the car behind you, arms folded, leaning against the hood like she had no business being there. And when your eyes found hers, she grinned.

Then lifted both hands and crossed her fingers slowly. Your stomach did a slow, warm flip, turned toward the driver’s seat.

Natasha slid in beside you. You watched her hands on the steering wheel. She looked at you sideways, almost like she could feel your stare.

“…What?” she asked.

You shook your head, smile creeping up your face. “Nothing.”

But your heart was suddenly beating louder than before. And somehow, you knew, without knowing why- Tonight was going to change everything.

The drive started like any other. You were curled sideways in the seat, one leg tucked under you, gesturing wildly as you told some ridiculous story about Willow and a protein shake exploding in the locker room.

Natasha nodded occasionally, gave soft mhm’s, eyes focused on the road. Her hands on the wheel were steady, knuckles just barely flexing when the streetlights caught them.

You barely noticed. You were too busy rambling, laughing, reliving the way Willow had shouted. You were mid-sentence when something shifted. You frowned, mid-laugh, and glanced out the window.

“Wait.”

Natasha didn’t look at you. You sat up a little straighter.

“Did you just miss the turn?”

“Hmm?”

“To the restaurant. You just passed it.”

Natasha gave a tiny smile. “Did I?”

You blinked. “…Yes?”

“Guess we’re going somewhere else.”

You stared at her for a second, caught between confusion and suspicion. But she didn’t say anything else. Just flicked the indicator and turned onto a quieter road, the city slowly thinning behind you. You watched her out of the corner of your eye. She looked completely relaxed. Too relaxed.

“Nat..” you said slowly, “are you kidnapping me?”

“Wouldn’t be the worst date idea.” she murmured, eyes still forward.

You rolled your eyes. “Seriously, where are we going?”

She didn’t answer. You turned back to the window, half to check the road, half to fight the weird flutter in your chest.

Then you saw it. The building. And your breath caught.

“…Wait..” you whispered.

Natasha glanced at you just briefly, a flicker of warmth in her expression. You turned your whole body toward the glass now, heart starting to race for entirely different reasons.

“That’s-”

“Yeah.”

“My old track?”

She pulled into the narrow lot beside it, the tires crunching softly on old gravel. The buildings looked the same, faded, boxy, industrial and somehow still comforting. You could see the rows of open garage doors. The empty tower. The half-painted line where cars used to queue before testing.

You hadn’t been here in years. Not since before Romanoff Racing. Before Natasha. Before everything..

She cut the engine. You turned to her, breath catching just a little.

“…What is this?”

Natasha’s voice was soft. “Come with me.”

She stepped out, walked around the car, and opened your door for you like it was sacred. You blinked up at her, heart thudding, and took her hand without a word.

The moment your feet hit the pavement, the memories came back in waves. Sweaty days in overalls. Oil under your nails. The first time you adjusted a suspension without double-checking the manual. Your first test drive.

You followed Natasha toward the open garage. It was cleaner than you remembered, maybe freshly prepped for her. But the bones were the same. You could almost see your younger self crouched near the back, tightening something with your whole body, muttering under your breath.

“I used to live in here..” you whispered, eyes wide.

Natasha didn’t speak. She just looked at you. Let you take it in. Then gently reached for your hand and gave it a tug.

“Come on.”

You walked behind her toward the platform above the test track, the one overlooking the straight. You hadn’t stepped foot on it in years. She climbed the stairs first, steady and slow, and you followed.

When you reached the top, the breeze hit your face, light and familiar. You gripped the rail instinctively, eyes scanning the stretch of road. And then you turned.

Natasha wasn’t looking at the track. She was looking at you.

“This is where I first saw you.” she said softly.

You blinked. “What?”

She took a step closer. “I came here scouting test drivers. Just one random day. I didn’t know your name. I just remember watching you storm out of the garage, You were in the car. And the second you hit the throttle…” She shook her head, smile soft. “I knew. Right then.”

“Knew what?”

“That I wanted you on my team.”

Your throat went dry. You blinked again. “And then later..” she added, quieter now, “I realized I didn’t just want you on my team.”

Her voice almost broke there. “I wanted you in my life.”

You stared at her. She reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. Her hand lingered on your cheek. You leaned into it without meaning to.

The silence wasn’t empty.. It was full. Your chest felt tight. “Natasha..” you whispered. “What are you-“

But she was already stepping back. Her fingers slipped from your face, and moved toward her jacket pocket.

You felt it before it happened.

The way her eyes softened. The way her hand hovered near her jacket, hesitant, shaking just a little, the kind of tremble no one else would ever notice, but you knew her. And in that flicker of silence, that split-second where the air pulled still and the whole world felt like it stopped moving- You knew.

“N-Natasha.” you breathed, barely a whisper.

She didn’t speak, her eyes didn’t leave yours. Her hand slipped into her pocket. Pulled out the small, velvet box. Turned it once in her fingers.

And then.. She dropped to one knee. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t planned for cameras or theatrics. It was real.

You covered your mouth with one hand, your breath catching so hard in your chest it almost hurt. Your knees went weak. Your heart jumped into your throat and refused to come down.

Natasha looked up at you. Her mouth opened, but nothing came for a second. She blinked, swallowed, and let out a tiny, self-conscious laugh, barely audible. Then she breathed, and started to speak.

“You’ve always scared me.”

You blinked, tears already stinging, but you didn’t look away.

“Not because you’re loud.” she went on, voice steadying. “Not because you’re fast. But because the moment I saw you, I knew. And knowing scared the hell out of me.”

She turned the box in her fingers once more-, still closed.

“I watched you work on a car like it was an extension of your body. Like the bolts were part of your pulse. You didn’t care who was watching, or if someone told you no. You did it anyway.”

Her voice went soft.

“And then I met you. And it only got worse.”

You laughed through your hand, trying not to cry.

“You are stubborn. Reckless. Beautiful. Frustrating. Brilliant. And you are the only person who’s ever made me feel like I could stop running.”

She finally opened the box. The ring wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t meant to be. It was yours. Simple, elegant, crafted like a racecar part, clean lines, sharp setting, engraved words just barely visible inside.

You always win.

Natasha’s voice broke, just a little as she looked up at you.

“I don’t want a life without you. Not as your team leader. Not just as your partner in this sport. But as your person.”

She held the ring like it was fragile. Like it might vanish if she moved too fast.

“I want to be the one who sees you first. Every morning. In every win. In every fall. I want to be the hand that never lets go.”

Silence.

You didn’t move. You were crying now, shaking, lips parted but no sound coming out.

And then..Finally- she asked.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

It felt like the entire world had narrowed down to three things: the sunset bleeding into the edges of the track, the ring in Natasha’s steady hand, and the sound of your own heart thudding in your chest like it didn’t know whether to race or stop completely.

She was on her knees. Natasha Romanoff, your team principal, your partner, your anchor..was on her knees, holding everything she felt in the smallest, simplest gesture. And her eyes..God, her eyes. They didn’t just look at you. They searched you, waited for you, told you every unspoken thing she hadn’t been able to say for weeks.

And you…You were stunned. You turned in place slightly, like you were trying to ground yourself, eyes flicking to the track below, the garage behind, the platform beneath your feet. You remembered this place through grease-stained fingers and long nights. Back when you were just a name no one remembered and she was a rumor you didn’t believe.

Now she was this. Right here. Asking for forever. And all you could do was stare. “I…” you started, but it came out more breath than sound.

Natasha didn’t rush you. Didn’t speak. She just looked at you, still and open, like she’d stay in this moment as long as you needed her to.

You blinked hard, breath catching. Your knees wobbled beneath you and you lowered yourself slowly, instinctively, kneeling in front of her without even realizing you were doing it.

Still no words. Just your hands finding hers. You looked down at the ring, simple, beautiful, exactly right- and then back at her. The woman who terrified you with how deeply she knew you. Who made silence feel like safety. Who made love feel like a fight you wanted to win every day.

“I don’t know how you…” you whispered, your voice tight, almost breaking. “You did all this?”

Her lip twitched. She looked like she was about to smile, but didn’t want to break.

“I didn’t want perfect.” you whispered again, “I just wanted you.”

Natasha breathed in softly, like that one sentence was the only air she needed. You lifted your hand. Pressed your fingertips to her jaw. She closed her eyes for half a second and leaned into the touch like it hurt not to.

You gave a breathless laugh. It wasn’t disbelief anymore. It was joy. A kind of wonder that turned your whole face warm and wet and alive.

“…Yes.” you said.

Her eyes opened. You smiled, shaking, overwhelmed. You let it sit there, thick and true.

“Yes..” you whispered again, barely holding it together now. “Yes! Of course I’ll marry you.”

Natasha didn’t move for a second. Like she had to be absolutely sure this wasn’t something her heart made up. Then she reached for you.

Her arms came around your back as you leaned in, the ring still forgotten between you, and your bodies met halfway in a kiss that was slow and fragile and full of trembling, aching relief.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t a movie scene. But it was yours.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against hers, and your hands slid up to cup her face. She exhaled through a quiet, shaky laugh. And for once, Natasha Romanoff looked like the most undone woman in the world.

“…I love you.” she said, so softly it almost broke you.

You closed your eyes. And said it back without hesitation, without fear, without air.

“I love you more.”

Forever had never felt so right. You stayed there a long time. Neither of you said a word. Natasha had tucked her arms around your waist, your body folded into her lap, the two of you pressed together on that platform like you’d never need to leave it. Her head rested against your shoulder. Your hands tangled together over your chest. The ring still sat between your fingers, catching the soft orange glow of the setting sun.

Her breathing had finally evened out. Her heartbeat was slower now, steadier, but still there, fluttering against your back like it was trying to believe this was real. She pressed her nose into your neck. Closed her eyes, and suddenly, she was somewhere else entirely.

“The blue car! Who’s behind the wheel?”

“I want to meet her.”

“Are you sure? She doesn’t look like she wants to be found.” Natasha’s gaze hardened. “She’s already been to hell.” she murmured. “She can handle me.”

The present came rushing back in, the warmth of you pressed against her, the faint smell of your shampoo, the tiny little sound you made when you yawned and tried to hide it.

“I was so mean when we met.” you whispered, not even looking at her, just smiling.

“You were terrifying.” Natasha murmured into your shoulder.

“I remember yelling at you...”

“You yelled at me several times.”

You turned just enough to meet her eyes. “Still picked me, though.”

She kissed your temple. “I never looked at anyone else.”

The sun was almost fully down by the time you pulled out of the lot. You were holding her hand on the center console, your body turned slightly toward her in the seat, that dopey, dreamy little grin still plastered on your face. Natasha glanced at you once, then again..and gave the smallest shake of her head.

“You’re staring.” she said.

“I’m admiring.”

“At what?”

You didn’t answer. You just held up your hand, the one wearing the ring, and wiggled your fingers with a soft gasp like it was still the first time seeing it.

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, clearly holding back a laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m engaged to you. You made me a fiancée. I am going to be insufferable.”

She squeezed your hand. “Noted.”

“I need to call everyone. I need to call my mum, my dad, oh, my grandparents!!”

You giggled and stared at the ring again, gently pressing your lips to the back of her hand.

“I’m marrying you.”

She glanced over at you. Voice soft, and certain.

“You are.”

-

-

-

-

[ravingsockmonkey]

Some tips for handling discussing meeting schedules and things!

If you need to leave at a specific time (especially if you know this meeting or the people involved tend to go over scheduled time), then say "I have a hard stop at X:XX, so if this meeting is going to require more time then we will need to schedule it for a different time/date."

If in the above situation the meeting organizer opts to keep the originally scheduled date and time, then make sure you re-emphasize your hard stop time at the start of the meeting and again when it's 15 minutes until you need to leave. When that time comes up, don't apologize for needing to leave, but say "Thank you for your time and understanding; I am heading out now."

If someone sandwiches a meeting/call between two other scheduled items on your calendar, then reach out to them and say, "Hello, I have a meeting/call scheduled directly before and after your meeting. If you are able to reschedule, then it would allow us to be able to meet without running the risk of losing time due to the previous meeting/call running over and then having to leave for the next one."

If you're working in an environment that uses any kind of calendaring software (like Outlook) for scheduling meetings, appointments, etc, then make sure you're putting your lunch on there and marking it as busy! Never assume that people know when you take your lunch (or that they will care). Even if you work with people who are respectful of your lunch time, it will ensure that you're not forgetting it yourself!

Seriously though, if you're working in a place where you have a calendar, then use the fuck out of that thing that way if you need to focus on something for an hour you can run a better chance of someone not plopping something down right on top of it because "it was free on your calendar".

[mattsundaes]

suna rintarou x f!reader — 18+, period sex, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, blood, and they were roommates

roommate!suna who never fails to notice when you’re upset. who’s all snark and flirting until the moment that the downturn of your mouth seems genuine.

who hates the dickhead you’ve been sleeping with.

who hates him even more when you try to wipe away the fresh sheen of tears that coats your cheeks when you quietly slip in the door just past midnight.

who doesn’t even have it in him to make a teasing remark about your late night booty call not even letting you sleep over, not when you collapse on the couch beside him in a heap of sniffles. not when he recognizes the sweatshirt you’re wearing as his.

and when suna asks what’s wrong, you find that you’re too tired, too annoyed, too flustered to make up any excuse other than telling him what really happened—you got your period, and he thought it was gross. gross enough to make it abundantly clear he didn’t want you spending the night in his bed, either.

and because it’s suna and the boundaries of conversation between the two of you are nonexistent on a good day anyway, you dig your hole even deeper as you pathetically lament into a throw pillow, “i’ve been so horny all week and my vibrator broke and i kind of feel like i’m losing my mind so now i’m going to have to go use the shower head so i don’t make a gross mess—“

maybe it’s just because you’re exhausted.

maybe it’s because you know the guy you’ve been hooking up with hates suna just as much as suna hates him.

maybe it’s because the ache between your thighs has reached a maddening fever pitch.

“—i have a better idea.”

maybe it’s because you’ve been fumbling beneath a suffocating blanket of sexual tension with suna for years.

whatever it is, when suna interrupts you, your mouth snaps shut, and you tilt your head with interest.

he huffs out a quiet laugh at the way you perk up, thumb wiping away a stray tear from your cheek. “you’ve just got to trust me.”

trusting him, as it turns out, looks like you sitting on top of a towel on the couch with your legs spread, suna kneeling on the floor in front of you. and you don’t even have time to feel yourself burn with embarrassment over the mess he’s looking at, not when suna outright groans as he sinks a long finger into your soaked folds.

“stop covering your face,” suna murmurs, his gaze boring a hole into your own when he starts pumping two fingers in and out of your wet hole, every thrust met by the filthy squelch of blood and arousal.

you let your hands drop back down to your sides, head falling against the back of the sofa as he curls his fingers inside of you and strokes your swollen clit with his thumb.

“and don’t ever let anyone tell you this is gross,” he breathes out, free hand caressing your inner thigh as your blood coats his fingers.

“isn’t it, though?” you exhale, hips twitching as pleasure ricochets through your nerves, the coil in your gut winding tighter as you feel the towel beneath your ass grow wetter by the minute.

suna breathes out through his nose, an amused exhale, and presses a kiss to your inner thigh, just shy of the smear of blood that’s dripped all over it. “do you know how hard i am right now?”

you inhale sharply at the implication, and suna grins, pumping your soaked, filthy cunt even faster.

“if anything, you’ll think i’m the gross one for what else i wanna do,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your skin.

something bright and hot slides down your spine, and you swallow hard. “show me.”

if suna’s fingers in your blood-soaked pussy had you squirming, his tongue has you on the verge of sobbing, desperate tears clinging to the corners of your eyes as his name tumbles from your throat in gasping, hiccuping breaths.

fingers buried in his dark hair, suna moans as he eats you out, one hand clearly palming his dick through his shorts as he laves at your wet slit, sucks on your throbbing clit, and thrusts his tongue into your tight hole.

you think you’re begging for something, anything. you don’t even know what at this point. suna sounds just as wrecked as you feel, your blood smeared all over his lips and chin as he fucks you relentlessly with his tongue like he’s trying to devour your pleasure whole.

your orgasm tears through you, shoving a scream of pleasure past your lips while suna thrusts two fingers back inside of you and laps at your clit until you’re shaking and whimpering from the overstimulation.

—but it’s not enough, somehow.

not when you see the sticky, red mess all over his face and hands.

not when you watch him lick one of his fingers clean.

not when you see the wet spot of precum that stains the front of his shorts, his erection still straining against the material.

suna seems genuinely surprised when you rise from the couch and push him to the floor, eyebrows shooting up as you pull down his shorts and boxers and let his flushed cock spring free.

you stare down at him for a moment, the unspoken words written clearly across your face—but will you think i’m gross for what else i want to do?

suna smiles, hands sliding over your thighs as you straddle him, and he mouths, show me.

it’s filthy—the way you slide your soaked folds up and down the length of his cock. the blood and arousal that soaks his dick as you tease him until he’s gasping.

until he’s groaning your name and panting as you ease his thick cock into your aching pussy, his hips twitching with each wet, sticky inch.

you ride suna until you come all over his cock, until the feeling of your tight cunt contracting desperately on his length is what finally sends him over the edge, stuffing you deep as he fucks his cum up into you with sloppy, jerking thrusts.

you’re both a mess when it’s over, blood and cum sliding down his dick and dripping from between your thighs, the carpet somehow spared from it all as you reach behind you for the towel.

“shower?” he asks, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

you raise a brow, “now you think i’m gross?”

“no,” suna smirks. “i was just hoping you’d show me how you were planning on using our showerhead.”

[ackermanrage]

ʟɪᴘꜱᴛɪᴄᴋ ᴄᴏɴꜰᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴꜱ

levi ackerman x fem!reader warnings: none :) an: finally some levi fluff hehe~ i saw a fic like this a long time ago and decided to recreate it 😊

You stood near Levi’s desk, arms crossed and a teasing smirk on your lips as he finished adjusting the straps on his gear. The early morning light poured in through the window behind him, casting his office in an amber glow—warm enough to soften even the infamous scowl on his face.

“You’re triple-checking your harness like a rookie,” you said lightly.

“I don’t intend on dying because of a loose strap, brat.”

“You don’t intend on dying, period,” you corrected, walking over and gently pulling his cravat tighter around his neck. “Besides, you’ve got someone to come back to now.”

Levi’s eyes flickered up to meet yours. That intensity—the one only you ever got to see soften.

“I don’t need a reminder,” he said lowly.

You didn’t break eye contact. Instead, your fingers trailed from his cravat up to his cheek. His hands instinctively found your waist, steadying you, grounding both of you in that rare and quiet intimacy that existed only behind closed doors.

He glanced at you sideways. “What are you doing?”

“This,” you whispered, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

He sighed, as if he were already exhausted by your antics—but you didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed at his side.

“Are we really doing this right now?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw. “Before you go risking your life, I think you deserve a proper goodbye.”

Another kiss—lower this time, brushing the underside of his jaw.

Then one near his ear.

Then one just above his collarbone.

He shifted slightly, but still didn’t stop you. Maybe he didn’t want to.

“Don’t get carried away,” he muttered.

“You love it.”

“You’re leaving marks.”

You leaned in and said sweetly, “I'm not.”

Another kiss, slow and possessive, right at the side of his throat.

Levi let out a breath through his nose and fastened his cravat lazily over it. “You done?”

You tapped your chin in thought, then kissed his mouth once—quick and warm.

“Now I’m done.”

He adjusted his jacket, grabbed his gloves—but didn’t notice the trail of lipstick evidence decorating his pale skin.

You, of course, stayed completely quiet.

As he stepped toward the door, he glanced at you once more, his tone softer now.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

You gave a slow, coy smile. “Too late.”

---

The morning chill hadn’t yet burned off. The squad stood in a loose circle near the horses, the kind of barely-coordinated gathering that usually only happened when Levi hadn’t arrived yet.

Eren was yawning. Jean was pacing. Mikasa was already fully prepared and silently judging everyone else.

“Where the hell is he?” Jean muttered, shifting his weight. “Captain’s never late.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Connie said, brows raised. “Or like, sleeping in.”

“Maybe a Titan ate him,” Sasha added helpfully, chewing on a hunk of bread.

Mikasa didn’t say anything, but her eyes were on the HQ building like a hawk.

Then—footsteps.

Levi emerged from HQ, striding toward them with his usual quiet confidence. Scouts jacket. Bladed gear. Blank expression. Standard-issue everything—

Except the very obvious lipstick mark on his left cheek.

And the one half-hidden under his jawline.

And the faint pink blur at the base of his neck, slightly covered by his scarf but still peeking out.

He didn’t notice.

But they did.

Hange blinked once.

Sasha choked on her bite.

Armin visibly froze, as if trying to compute a math equation that broke physics.

Jean stepped back like he’d seen a ghost.

“...What the fuck is that?” Jean muttered. “Does anyone else—? Am I losing it?”

“Wait—waitwaitwait,” Connie gasped, grabbing Armin’s arm. “Look at his face. Look at his face.”

“I am looking at his face,” Armin whispered. “There’s lipstick. There’s definitely lipstick.”

One mark near the edge of his jawline.

Another just under his ear.

A third on the side of his neck.

A faint smear on his collarbone, barely hidden by the cravat.

Hange turned, took one look at Levi, and let out a loud, delighted cackle. “HOLY SHIT.”

“Are those—?” Sasha started.

“Lipstick,” Mikasa confirmed, arms crossed.

Jean took a step back like he’d seen a ghost. “Who the hell kissed Levi Ackerman?”

Eren squinted. “That… that can’t be real. That’s Levi. He doesn’t—he doesn’t do kissing.”

“LOOK AT HIS FACE!” Jean barked, pointing. “Someone full-on made out with him before he got here!”

Moblit looked like he was glitching. “Did we enter a parallel universe?”

Levi stopped walking. His expression was blank, jaw tight, but he could feel all eight of them staring holes through him.

He considered just mounting his horse and leaving without a word.

But no.

Too late now.

“What,” he said flatly, “are you all gawking at?”

“Captain,” Armin started delicately, “you… seem to be wearing… um…”

“Several very vibrant statements of affection,” Hange supplied. “In Rich Rosewood. Excellent shade, by the way.”

Levi glared. “Tch. It’s none of your business.”

“You’re covered in it,” Sasha said, voice an octave too high. “It’s everybody’s business now.”

“You’ve got kisses all over your damn face,” eren said, incredulous.

Levi frowned. “I do not.”

Mikasa reached into her pocket and whipped out a tiny compact mirror. “Check the evidence, sir.”

He looked into it.

Pause.

A longer pause.

His expression didn’t change—but his eyes did.

“…Shit.”

Connie exploded. “WHO KISSED YOU?!”

“No way this was just one kiss,” Sasha breathed. “This was like—a storm.”

Armin looked genuinely distressed. “Captain, are you in a relationship? Like—a real one?”

Hange’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Oh my god, it makes so much sense. You've been disappearing more. Staying late in meetings that mysteriously don’t involve any of us. That mysterious bruise on your neck last month. The weird good mood. This is huge.”

Levi adjusted his cravat again, this time higher, but it was far too late.

He considered lying. Brushing it off.

He sighed.

“I’m seeing someone,” he said, voice sharp as steel.

Sasha screamed.

Connie dropped to his knees. “THE WORLD ISN’T REAL.”

Jean’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. Wait, wait. Who is it? Who could it possibly be?”

“It’s not your concern,” Levi said calmly, starting toward his horse.

“It absolutely is our concern!” Jean cried. “We’re invested now!”

“Are they in the Corps?” Armin asked, trying to keep the tone respectful. “You can just say yes or no. Blink twice.”

“No,” Levi replied. “But yes.”

Moblit whispered, “What does that even mean?”

“Are they hot?” connie asked.

Levi didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Hange murmured, looking skyward. “It’s y/n, isn’t it?”

Levi froze mid-step.

And that silence said everything.

Eren howled. “YOU’RE DATING HER?! SHE’S LIKE—THE COOLEST PERSON IN THE ENTIRE BRANCH!”

“She could punch all of us and I’d say thank you,” Sasha added.

Jean shook his head slowly. “I didn’t even think you liked people.”

“I don’t,” Levi muttered. “She’s an exception.”

Mikasa was quiet, but the smallest, faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “She makes sense for you.”

Levi mounted his horse without further commentary.

Everyone watched him like he was a newly crowned deity.

“When did this happen?” Armin asked.

“None of your damn business.”

“Do you love her?” Sasha blurted.

Levi paused. “Irrelevant.”

“OH MY GOD YOU LOVE HER,” Jean screamed.

“Like. Deep,” Sasha whispered.

“You guys gonna get married or—?” Connie started.

“Enough,” Levi barked. “Anyone who brings this up on the mission gets left in the forest.”

Hange sang out. “This is the best day of my life.”

“Shut up.”

“You can���t stop us,” Connie said proudly. “This is the tea of the year.”

“Connie,” Levi deadpanned, “do you want a concussion?” "But you gotta admit captain, you're down bad." Eren said, smirking.

Levi turned around. But from the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly, the answer was clear.

And he still didn’t wipe off the lipstick.

©ackermanrage - please do not copy, translate, or plagiarize my work!

[soulgazingwithbucky]

why bucky has a blowout

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Summary: bucky would never take advice from valentina or any of the thunderbolts, let alone hair advice. but the love of his life? a different story

Warnings: fluffy ig?

Word count: 750

A/N: i never thought i would miss the unbearable itch to write, and yet!!! so happy i was able to make something, so i hope ya enjoy! If you find yourself enjoying this, feel free to check out my other works here <3

"Stay still, Buck," you murmur softly.

Bucky stifles a huff. He could stay still for hours--if he wasn't in front of the bathroom mirror, forced to stare at his reflection. Behind him, you cup a strand of his hair in your hand.

You release the strand, pleased at the slight curl that has formed.

"I'm not doin' anymore of these things, doll," Bucky says. "M'telling Valentina she can put Walker up there from now on."

"You tell her, love," you encourage, though you're a bit distracted wrapping the next strand of hair around the thermal brush. You've never met your husband's "boss," but you've heard enough to get a sense of her character. You doubted Bucky was going to be able to get himself out of press conferences.

"After this hairstyle, though? You'll be first in line for any media coverage," you tease.

This time, Bucky can't hold back a grumble at the thought. You giggle, but it's quickly stifled by a yawn. Bucky softens at the sight of your sleepiness.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he says sheepishly.

Valentina is a blur as she rushes past Bucky. But she pauses abruptly, taking a few steps back until she's planted in front of him. Bucky does his best to ignore her, staring straight ahead, but he eventually puts down his sandwich and slowly meets her eyes.

"This won't do," Valentina says, gesturing at his head. Bucky doesn't care much about what "won't do," but he has a meeting with Agent Taylor in twenty minutes. He very much likes the idea of enjoying his sandwich on the couch, sans the Contessa.

"What, Valentina?" Bucky says slowly.

"This hair," she responds, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I have been telling him that!" Alexei declares. Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose as the Red Guardian emerges from the kitchen. "I told him, my sponsorship with Drybar is at risk if--"

"Oh, Drybar? That's pretty good. Listen, Bucky, if there's one thing I know, it's hair. Wish you could ask that guy, am I right?" Valentina gestures in Bob's general direction in the next room.

"No," Bucky responds.

"I tell him, so flat," Alexei continues, "so lifeless! Bucky, hair care is so important--"

"Great talk, everybody," Bucky declares, scooping up his sandwich and taking it into the other room.

When Bucky recalled the conversation to you, he thought you'd laugh it off with him. Instead, he saw a glint in your eye that made him worried. Afterwards, he came home one too many times to you binge watching hair tutorials. Foolishly, he held out hope that you would lose interest, but then packages of hair tools started arriving at your door.

"You know," you said, holding back another yawn, "if we lived closer to the Tower, we wouldn't have to wake up so early."

"Not yet, doll," is Bucky's gruff response. Living far away meant that it would be harder for people to link you two. It wasn't that he would get relentlessly teased by his coworkers about being married--that was a given. But if they were on a mission, and one of them became compromised? He couldn't imagine what would happen if the wrong people found out about his life. About you. He already had to live with the fact that Sam helped you both find this house, and now--

"He's our friend, Buck." You recognize the distraught look on your husband's face, and you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, breaking him out of his spell. "He would never do anything to hurt us."

Bucky moves to place a kiss on your hand, grateful that he doesn't always have to talk for you to understand him. He opens his mouth to express his appreciation, but you interrupt him.

"All done," you say proudly. The wide grin on your face is almost enough to make Bucky forget that he is going to be sitting in a room full of journalists in a few hours. You comb your fingers through his hair to loosen the curls, then apply hairspray. Bucky makes a show of sputtering. He never makes a show of anything, but he loves the way you giggle at his antics.

He turns to face you, wrapping his arms around your waist. You wrap your hands around his neck, trying your best to avoid your hard work.

"My wife," he says, a phrase he will never get tired of saying. He plants a kiss on your lips before you respond:

"My hero."

[nakylvr]

— magnolia ✧ D.A

summary જ⁀➴ after two months of being engaged, there are more unexpected surprises that come in the form of two lines on a pregnancy test

warnings/tags જ⁀➴ fluff, dealer!dani au, f!reader, established relationship, pregnancy announcement

substance masterlist

based on this ask

to say you were panicking would be an understatement, because you were losing your shit, utterly and totally losing it. the past three days you woke up rushing to the bathroom to throw up, and you thought you were just sick. until you realized that you were late for your period. then, the panicking started.

you called megan on the fourth day while dani was out running errands, asking her to come over and make sure dani didn't know. she was confused, but she always listened. so within half an hour, she was sitting outside your bathroom.

when you told megan the reason you wanted her there, and showed the test in your hand, she understood why you were freaking out. it was understandable, it made sense.

she stood outside the bathroom while you did the test. both of you waiting anxiously for the results that would come. and when the results came, your heart dropped.

two lines. you were pregnant.

"meg?" you say loud enough for her to hear through the door, your voice cracking.

megan instantly opens the door, peeking her head through before slowly walking up to you. you don't say anything, instead just holding up the test towards her, and her eyes go wide.

"yn..." is all she can get out.

"what am i going to do?" your lip quivers as tears fill your eyes.

"everything's gonna be fine," megan says quickly. "you're gonna be fine. this is–this is a good thing, right?"

"i-i don't know," you answer honestly. "how am i supposed to tell her?"

"we'll figure it out." megan grabs your hand. "you don't have to tell her right now. just when you're ready."

you slowly nod, a few tears trickling down your cheeks. "i'm scared, megan." you whisper. "i'm so fucking scared."

"i know." megan crouches in front of you, wrapping her arms around you and hugging you. "everything is gonna work out, i swear."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

you were still hesitant on even telling daniela two days after you confirmed you were pregnant. you were terrified of her reaction and how she would go about it. there were hundreds of thoughts running through your head, and you didn't know what to do about it.

sitting on the couch with your hoodie on over your head, a blanket covering you, and multiple tissues around you, you were recovering from crying on the phone with megan. daniela was out on a deal, and you had maybe five more minutes before she would be back.

"it's gonna be fine, yn. seriously."

"i don't know, megan." you say quietly.

daniela unlocks the front door and takes a few steps inside, hearing you talking and assuming you were on the phone. she opens her mouth to say something, but freezes in her place at your next words.

"i mean, what if she doesn't want to keep it?"

daniela swears her heart drops to her stomach, but she tries to play it off. tossing her keys exaggeratedly on the counter and announcing her presence like she didn't hear you. "i'm back!"

you immediately hang up on megan when you hear daniela's voice, putting your phone down as she walks into the living room. she stops abruptly when she sees the state of you along with the tissues scattered around you, her eyebrows furrowed together in concern.

"are you okay?"

you meekly nod your head, fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie that draped over your hands. daniela walks over and sits down beside you. she can tell you're lying, but she doesn't push it.

"so, what were you talking about me not wanting to keep?" she asks nonchalantly. "you didn't get a dog without asking me, did you?" she jokes.

you don't smile, you're not even looking at her when you quietly say the words. you can see her smile drop the second you say it.

"i'm pregnant."

there's a silence that fills the room. uncomfortable, awkward, the kind that hadn't happened in a while. you contemplate saying something else, play it off as a joke maybe. but daniela speaks first.

"are you serious?" she asks quietly.

you nod, feeling your throat close up. "i-i took a test a few days ago a-and it came out positive." you manage to get out. "i'm sorry for not telling you right away. i-i didn't know what to do."

daniela grabs one of your hands, bringing it up to her lips and pressing small kisses on your knuckles. "this is amazing, mi vida." she says softly. you finally look over at her, and your breath catches in your throat seeing the tears in her eyes. "this is amazing. i can't wait to start a family with you. i love you so much."

"really?" you let out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"of course," daniela says with a nod, grabbing your arm and pulling you onto her lap. she peers up at you with pure adoration and love in her eyes, and it makes tears fill your own. "i'm so happy. this is great. we're gonna have a family, and we're gonna be the best parents ever. i love you so much, so so much. and i'm going to be right here with you every step of the way. i promise." she presses a gentle kiss on your cheek that had a few tears trailing down.

a small smile grows on your face at her words, and you don't know why you were worrying in the first place. "i love you too. you're going to be great." you reply.

"you're gonna be even better." she smiles back at you. "i can't wait."

"yeah, me too." you smile, leaning in and kissing her.

[revelboo]

Hi revel!!! So I had an idea for a scenario for either various or just 1 bot but im a transman and im a full blown himbo. Like kinda short, but a lot of muscle and freakishly strong for my size 😭 sometimes I freak out my much larger husband with my strength cuz he forgets because of how short I am. Anyways I was just wondering how like Rodimus, ES Megatron (my faves<3) or any other bot/s of your choice would react to that. Ty for all that you do for the transformers Fandom <3!!!

Sure!

Strong

ES Megatron x Reader

• Watching him fumbling absently around on his desk, you put your shoulder against the nearly empty energon cube and push. Bare feet squeaking on metal as the cube slides with a rasp and he looks over at you in surprise. “Thank you, little one,” he rumbles softly, that little crease between his optics making you want to smooth it away with your fingers as you smile breathlessly.

• “Any time,” you say, grinning as you resume restlessly pacing and he picks up the cube, testing the weight. Every now and then he’s seen you jog circuits around the edge of his berth or stretch out to push yourself up with your arms. Training. Likes watching you move, the way you can bend and stretch. Like right now, one arm extended over your head as you bend slightly, stretching. So fascinatingly flexible compared to him.

• “We could spar sometime,” he says, lifting the cube to drink and you wrinkle your nose. Knowing how one sided that would be. You like to workout, to push yourself, but he’s still a lot bigger than you are even mass displaced. You’d done track and wrestled in high school and after graduating, you’d tried to hit the gym in the mornings. Lifted weights and ran on the treadmills, because you could listen to music and lose yourself to the routine of it. It was your breathing space from everything else.

• “Would you let me win?” You ask and he laughs, tapping a servo against his cube. He’d like to lie. Say that he’d play spar and let you pin him down just to see you smile, to build up your confidence. But he knows he’d pin you down and claim you as his. Rut against you until you’re both spent. And then do it again. Servos flexing on the cube until it starts to bend with a little crack and he eases up.

• ‘I’d dominate you,’ he counters on a growl, a servo sliding against the side of the cube, optics brightening. ‘Conquer you.’ And your smile becomes wicked. “You can certainly try,” you challenge as you give him a slow once over. Brows lifting as he smiles, you dance backward on his desk, hands up gesturing for him to bring it on. Knowing you can’t win, but with consequences like these, you don’t mind losing. Don’t mind getting a workout before the real workout either.

[leyavo]

| I am my father’s daughter | 13 |

PART THIRTEEN 💖 Dad!Price & Daughter!reader, eventual Soap x reader. 3k+ words

Previous parts -> [series masterlist]

TW: hurt/angst/mentions of abuse/ complicated father-daughter relationship

🔈Readers view of John is different, he’s come and gone in her life etc so she thinks he’s not that great. So don’t send me hate

| Please be aware that manipulative people are really good at twisting the narrative to look good and make others look bad! They know their targets, can be two completely different people that you wouldn’t realise what goes on behind closed doors. Trigger warning: LENA!! |

Lena’s POV:

Vodka lemonade. Lena Marston’s drink of choice, a companion she’d kept since her teen years. Where John had whisky, she had vodka and a kid, you. She likes to think that she’s a decent mother, enough to prepare you for the bad people in this world. You’re resourceful, a tad hopeful but it always works in her favour. So desperate for love that you believe every word she coats with sugar and when she does snap, you’re reminded of the harsh reality. Lena’s a realist, taking things for what they are. Whereas you’re an idealist, hoping that those around you will change for the better. That your mother will stop drinking and choosing men over you. That your father will come back and make everything right. As if taking her youth wasn’t enough, you’re still causing trouble for her now.

She thought she raised you better, maybe you are your father’s daughter. Someone who thinks they can change the world. Nobody changes, it’s laughable to imagine John any different, but as he sits opposite her with a non-alcoholic drink she can’t help, but laugh.

It’s been years since Lena’s seen John, a few phone calls here and there to lay the foundations. To complain about you, ask John when he’s going to pick his daughter up and have a word. Such an ungrateful girl. John’s age hasn’t ruined his looks, a head full of thick hair and beard. Doesn’t have to cover the grey hairs, dye his roots every month to appear younger. He’s not the one carrying stretch marks on his stomach or a scar from birthing you.

“Well how’s the wife, John? The boy…you always wanted a boy,” Lena asks, swirling the vodka around in her glass, ice cubes clinking together. She can’t remember the kids age or name and doesn’t care much to be honest. She’s thankful that she never had another.

John nods, “yep, all good. A three year old girl too.” His fingers drum against the table, sipping his beer without breaking eye connect with Lena.

Oh, that must ruin you. No longer daddy’s little girl and now you see John being the present dad that you’d only dreamt of growing up with. Another fantasy Lena told you to let go of years ago. Dreams don’t come true for girls like you.

He's not bothered to shred his jacket or remove the knitted scarf around his neck. Still the same man, gaze trailing Lena's features for any tells. John always reading too much into things or people and getting lost in the tiny details. Trying to connect them, losing the bigger picture completely. Not everything has to be so complex.

"You took money from our kid?"

And there it is…

Lena scoffs, “my kid, John. Ain’t seen you raising her.” She slams the glass to the table and points to her chest, sharp red nails jabbing herself and reminding him that she was there, not him. He’s always been too proud, wanting to be seen as a good and decent man. And in some ways maybe he is.

John leans back in his chair, gaze on his beer as if he wondering if it’s half full or half empty. There’s no way you’ve told him, he’d probably be less calm now than if you had. No, he doesn’t know everything and as per usual you’ve made it too easy for Lena. She’d thank you, but she doesn’t want to ruin the surprise. That or let you craft an excuse or hint at the truth.

“She didn’t tell ya? Of course she wouldn’t,” Lena chuckles, chasing the last remnants of her drink, vodka and lemon not as strong with the melting ice. “That ungrateful little shit stole that money from me, the last time she went back to him.” She sniffs, back of her hand swiping her nose. Her eyes sting, lashes clumping with tears and she feels the weight of John’s hand on top of hers. A heaviness she hasn’t had in years, but she’s laying the foundations. Dropping little pieces for John to pick up, make him overthink and draw his own conclusions. Anything to get him off her back.

His thumb brushes over her knuckles, light and soothing. “I didn’t know,” John says and Lena dares to glance up at him, his hand retreating back to his lap.

Phase one, plant a seed of doubt. Turn a bad thing sour. The moneys technically hers anyways, for all those years she had to raise you on her own. It’s not easy bringing a kid up without a father or the usual bricks and mortar. Half the time you were the reason Lena had to pack up her life again and search for the next place to settle. And as you grew older she noticed the way men’s eyes lingered on you instead of her. You were the one picking her up off the floor though, dragging her into the shower and sobering her up. You looked after her better than any man had and she wondered where you’d learnt that from. It wasn’t her, maybe that’s why Lena can’t stand you. She’s never been cut out to be a mother, didn’t have one like that either. So, how can you care for her better than she can?

Sometimes she sees her younger self in you and it twists her insides. A poison that coats the back of her throat, weighing on her tongue that she resorts to unleashing that venom on you. Lena tries not to think of being a teen with a toddler, lying on a mattress as you scream a fever. She can still hear those cries in the depths of a night terror, because to her you were a terror. No life and isolated from everything she once knew. The week days merging together till John called on a Saturday or Sunday, offering Lena a piece of her old self. His money the one thing giving her life.

Your teen years are what she loathed most. Lena refused to get you certain clothes, bought you a size too big so it swamped your body and said it would save her money in the long run. You are your mother’s daughter after all, she doesn’t want to compliment or encourage you in fear you’ll do better than her. There’s that spec of your father though, the spark of fire you strike back whenever one of her boyfriends tried to lay down the law. Never did learn.

“Fancy a smoke?” Lena asks, pulling a pack menthol cigarettes from her handbag. She slings her coat over her shoulders and smiles as John nods.

Another distraction, a break between the forced conversation and Lena wonders if you’d smell the lingering scent when John gets home. It’s distinct, something you despised.

The rain pelts on the awning outside the pub, wind whipping through the patio and Lena wades through the tables to heater. A warm orange glow illuminating above johns head as he stands in front of her and lights her cigarette, he reluctantly accepts one of her menthol ones, sparking the end alight with hers. He hates the smell of mint and tobacco merged, but Lena knows he’s too stressed not to smoke. His fingers have been twitching against his pint glass since he sat down an hour ago.

If he wasn’t married and loyal like a dog, she’d probably sleep with him. Anything to get him off her back. You’d definitely leave if you knew she’d had her claws back in him. The one scrap of hope you hold onto, John.

John exhales a cloud of smoke, head tilted as he watches the wind carry the fog away. “How much?” He asks, turning the cigarette in his hold.

“Don’t matter, we sorted it out. She’s an adult now John, needs to learn there’s consequences. Lord knows she should’ve learnt ‘em six bloody years ago,” Lena says, flicking her ash into the nearest tray on the table. She glances to John out of the corner of her eye, the muscle in his jaw flexing at the mention of six years ago. A testy subject for all involved, especially you. A turning point that solidified your hatred for John.

“Spit it out Lena,” he snaps, never one to beat around the bush with her. Hook-line and sinker. “You and her are always dangling that in my face, but I’m yet to be told what actually happened.” His nose wrinkles as he takes another drag of his cigarette, eyes narrowed at Lena.

His gaze doesn’t waver from her face, she’s not even sure he’s breathing as he waits for the verbal blow. Ash burning his fingers. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

“You really wanna know your kid?” Lena cocks her to the side, arched brow rising. He nods, crushing the cigarette under his boot. “She was arrested for the possession of drugs at fifteen, John. Went to a young offenders institute for months until I managed to get the charges dropped.”

John opens his mouth, but she waves him off. She relays the details, telling him of that night and the months that followed, answering his questions in between. Exaggerating certain parts to prove a point, that you’re not the good kid he thinks you are.

“That boyfriend of hers, you can thank him. She gave me hell for years John, I don’t blame you. I know you were working that huge case and couldn’t be home, but I did my best,” she says, wiping the salty tears rolling down her cheeks and leaning into john’s embrace as he wraps an arm around her. Too easy.

"I'm here now, let me help," he says, palm smoothing up and down her arm. She tucks her head under his chin and wraps her arms around his torso. It’s like she’s a teen again, clinging to John for warmth.

Lena releases a trembling breath. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still using. You know those mood swings and lashing out,” she mumbles into his chest. He tenses, slipping out of her hold and stepping back.

“What really happened between the two of you?” He asks, leaning down to try and catch her wandering gaze. “Kid, can’t even talk about ya’ without…”

“She’ll bleed you dry John and be gone before you realise,” Lena’s voice muffled, cigarette balancing between her lips as she dug through her handbag. “Your kids actual phone number, she’s got two.” She hands him a faded receipt, blue ink smeared on the crumpled paper.

John’s POV:

John thought if he saw Lena face to face he’d know, some sort of gut instinct to untangle the mess in his head. Dad intuition or whatever it’s called, but he doesn’t have that with you not yet. If anything, all he’s sees in Lena is you. You can’t be doing drugs, he checked your bag whilst you were in the hospital and if you had Toff would have added it to your medical notes. The mood swings, John knows are more trauma related. If Lena is lying what does she gain from doing so?

The smudged ink of your second phone number burns a hole in his pocket. Already stored in his contacts list just incase. He’s not going to bring it up with you either, knowing you’ll get rid of it and he won’t be able to reach you one day.

The mist of rain blurs John’s surroundings outside his truck. Window cracked open a fraction as he tries to get rid of the fogged up glass, old heater ticking away. Your bedroom light is still on, but John doesn’t want to enter the res house, not till he’s got his head sorted and he’s prepared. The last thing he wants it to scare or push you away. He knows if he reaches out too fast and close, you’ll withdraw. Maybe even leave him and never look back. Part of him doesn’t want to dig up that police report, it’s probably been cleared off your record by now as you were a minor and the charges were dropped. Doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it though. His stomach twisting as he realises how alone you must have felt and he now understands why you think he wasn’t there for you. He knows he wasn’t there.

Lena’s minty scent clings to his clothes, he can smell it on his moustache and fingertips. The alcohol gel in his car not giving him much help, if anything he doesn’t even think it has a particular aroma to it. He curses himself for leaving his cigars back in his office, locked away in the top drawer. Meeting Lena wasn’t planned, the whole evening throwing him off as he sat in his truck at three in the morning. The missed calls on his phones unanswered, he’d warned Angie of that though and wasn’t expecting her to ring anytime soon. No, Simon’s number appears in the chain of notifications, on and off for the past two hours. A text of his return soon, always giving him an estimated arrival.

The next op isn’t his main worry though, but it should be. He hates to think it. There’s a niggling feeling that if John goes away now, you might not be home when he returns. The thought alone making him not want to have the have the talk. He has to though. A light tap against the glass draws him out of his thoughts and he rolls the window down. One skeleton gloved hand rests against the truck as Simon leans down to greet John.

“Work or the kid?” Simon asks, his gaze flitting to the line settling between johns brows as if he already knows. He wrinkles his nose, swaying in his spot as if the stench of minted tobacco has just invaded the thin layer of his mask. The cheapest cigarettes that are supposed to be left on the shelves, well that’s what Simon says.

John nudges his head to the passenger seat, watching Simon circle the truck and open the door. The old vehicle rocking as he fell into the seat and closed the door lightly. John’s lost count of how many times he’s had to fit the handle back on whenever Simon slams the door. The engine sputters to life and they don’t say anything till they’re out of the military base. Nothing but the open road and the darkness wrapping around them.

“Went to see Lena,” John says, the red light glaring at him and he slams the brakes, both of them lurching forward in their seats.

“And you came back with more questions than answers?” Simon replies, raising a blond brow at the captain. He’s never been a fan of John’s ex.

John fills him on the evening and everything Lena told him. Simon silent, nodding along as he listened. John can’t help, but see you in another light now and he tells Simon so. His mind wandering back to the shattered lamp, did you knock it off or break it? He knows you’re lying about your mum and he hopes you’ll pluck up the courage to confide in him. He doesn’t even want to go into the whole Johnny and you situation with Simon, he’s not ready for that yet. The one thing he definitely has to pull you up on.

“I just don’t know what to think,” John mumbles, fingers pressing against his temple and the dull pulsating ache. The past few weeks were weighing on him, work escalating and your unpredictable moods around him made him try ten times harder to accommodate your needs. Lowering his voice, stepping back and offering you more space in hopes you’ll come to him. He can’t keep saying later with you. He’s running out of time.

“She’s gotta have a reason to lie,” Simon pauses, holding a hand up and silencing John before he can offer his thoughts. “Think about it, she’s not had a stable upbringing and well, you don’t know the full story. You need to talk to the kid before you jump to conclusions.”

John nods, looping back round the streets and driving to the military base. The back of his throat burns, mouth dry as Simon’s words sink in. He doesn’t have all the information and you deserve to be heard. He owes you that much.

The truck rolls to a stop outside the res house, the light from your bedroom off. John removes the keys and holds them in his palm, elbow on the door panel. Simon exits the truck, walking round to johns side and he reaches over the door and pops the handle down opening it for him.

“Take a breather, then talk to her. It’s all fresh and amplified mate, just don’t interrogate the kid. With the right questions you’ll be able to figure out the situation.” Simon nods, advice given and he disappears down the gravel path to the main building without another glance.

John's lucky to get two hours sleep, giving up as soon as the sunlight filters through the blinds. He makes his bed as usual, tucking the sheets under the mattress and sits on the edge. His suitcase stares at him beside the chest of drawers, his fingers turning his wedding band deep in thought. He glances to the clock reading seven forty and he rises from the bed, pulling his door open.

He walks into your room, expecting the the door handle to rattle and the lock to click, but it swept wide open.

“Come on, up you get Kiddo,” John says, tugging the duvet off you. “You’re coming home with me, no discussion.” He tosses the flimsy duffle on your bed, pulling your clothes from the hangers in the wardrobe.

You catch the hoody he throws at you, mumbling under your breath as you shove it over your head and accept your fate. He thought you'd fight him on it, but he doesn't give you the chance to.

Lena stirring things up 🥴 johns going to have the talk with kiddo in the next part 🫡 please note I am dyslexic so there may be errors/mistakes. I do edit multiple times but miss out things - Leya

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[mcflymemes]

PROMPTS FROM DATE EVERYTHING (PART 2) *  assorted dialogue from the 2025 video game, specifically the volt and eddie romance, adjust as necessary

trust me, i would never forget such a striking face.

why is so hard for you to believe i actually like spending time with you?

care to dance?

it's far too easy to lose oneself with you.

don't think i'm done with you yet, [name].

i imagine it would be quite difficult to focus on anything with you around.

you have quite the reputation. i'm eager to explore it for myself.

it's a pleasure to officially make your acquaintance.

i kinda feel underdressed.

trust me, you look stunning.

as long as you're going to be there, i'm up for anything.

careful there. i might just take you up on that.

are you always this oblivious?

are you always this much of an asshole?

cute. now get out, i've got work to do.

there's no time, all right? there's too much to do.

have i ever failed you before?

i'm serious, [name]. if it gets worse, you come get me.

how delightful. you're back.

you do learn quickly, don't you.

i'll have to find some more challenging lessons for you.

as much as i'm enjoying our conversation, there are a few more things i must attend to.

allow me to show you to your seat.

oh for fuck's sake, what do you want?

you actually care about this, don't you?

can i finish my drink in peace?

look, you'd better rest up if you want to be useful tomorrow.

you can't get rid of me that easily.

you'll probably change your mind once you realize what you signed up for.

i'm fine. you can put me down now.

that was unbelievably careless. what were you trying to do exactly?

just pay more attention.

i suddenly feel awkward and self-conscious.

you've done a decent job the last couple of days.

now you can get back to... whatever it is you do when you're not invading my space.

i already told you. big crowds aren't really my thing.

i do better on my own. trust me. i'll only slow you down.

be honest, you enjoyed yourself so much last time you just couldn't stay away. am i right?

i can't go back to being alone.

i can't lose you.

it's my job to protect you, even from yourself.

just do it before i change my mind.

i'd almost forgotten what this felt like.

isn't there something you wanted to talk about first?

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

if you think rafayel is the pettiest among the five, i beg to differ cause i think the pettiest would either be zayne or sylus.

hear me out.

while rafayel is the loudest, i dont think he is that petty during arguments cause he is very vocal and he would kinda do things on whim, like right then and there.he can be very dramatic — no doubt about it, also exaggerate — yes, but not too petty. probably occasionally, if he knows he is right. he is more sulky than petty i think.

caleb? maybe, a bit, but he's pretty softie on mc. sure, he locked her out in the attic only bec he's trying to keep her safe from the bullies (but i have a theory they were ppl from ever but that's for a different post). other than that, he'd probably let mc win (most of the time as long as its not her safety on the line).

xavier? 50/50, depending on his mood, possibly yes because he's a prince, but then again he is some sort of public servant to his subjects like he is trying to save his planet, take his people back to philos so maybe not that much. sure he could be competitive, but he can admit defeat reasonably.

but talking about zayne and sylus...

zayne hates to lose due to his know-it-all nature and science-factual-shit. and he will be very petty just to prove a fucking point. he would translate things in a painful, annoying, literal way that would make mc just give up because the man would do a play-by-play commentary, complete with citations and sources, just to prove his point. and he can be very sulky and broody in his own way.

now sylus. sure he is the sweetest, biggest teddy bear inside that scary dragon, but that's where his dragon nature would show. if mc says she's a big girl and can handle things on her own — you can bet that every jar in the house is locked tight so that mc would need to call him for help. and sylus would strut — yet strut that fine ass in whatever room mc calls him from, face smug, brows raised , would probably say, "what does the big girl need help with?"

i am also willing to bet that this happened at some point probably

but this is just my pov. 😂